How would it feel to have him strain against the ropes while I indulge myself and prove that I have all the power?
Despite my dirty little fantasy, kissing him would be a mistake.
By admitting a truth I’m not ready to admit, I’d cross a line I can’t uncross. One that has nothing to do with my mission, getting the locket back, or hurting my father.
Knowing Max, he’d probably find a way to kill me while we screwed around.
So instead, I adjust my weight again, deliberately grinding down against his hard length.
“Where’s the locket, Max?” I’ll use every weapon in my arsenal—my body, his desire, the attraction crackling between us—to break him.
“I’m not sure you understand how to torture information out of someone.” He wets his lips. “But by all means, keep going.”
“We’ll see.” I slide my hands from his hair to his chin, skimming his rapid pulse.
I caress the hard planes of his muscular chest, faint scars peeking through the gap left by the top two undone buttons. Evidence of a life lived violently, dangerously, on the edge of death.
His chest rises and falls too quickly, his control slipping despite his best efforts.
I continue to map the landscape of his body while he remains powerless to stop me. “Where is it?”
He doesn’t answer. Simply stares at me with those arctic eyes, fury and desire whirling like flame.
Fine.
I rock forward once, slow and intentional, gyrating my hips against him just enough to prove my point. To remind him of his helplessness, of how completely I have him. I skim my fingers under the shirt and jacket hanging loose over his shoulders.
His muscles are defined under his clothing. The perfect place to grip for balance.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t buck or thrust. Doesn’t give me anything. Just sits with his jaw clenched and his eyes locked on mine, refusing to play the game.
Stubborn bastard.
I half-smile, tip my chin up, and rock again, taking advantage of the situation to indulge myself in ways I never have before with a man.
In the back of my mind, I know I should crush these carnal urges. Ignore them and focus on the mission. Start ripping his fingernails out to encourage him to talk.
But my body only cares about the friction, the warmth, the wetness between my legs. The mission remains a distant thought somewhere beneath desire and instinct.
Then Max lifts his hips.
My toes leave the ground, his thighs and core strength supporting my weight. The motion drives him harder against me, creating pressure in exactly the right spot. I roll my hips, drawing circles right where I need.
I never thought restraining someone could be so damn erotic.
Never realized how good it could feel to have another body against mine.
My head drops back, and a whispered gasp slips past my lips.
No.
I snap my head up again, anger and shame flooding through my limbs. I will not lose control. I can’t let him see how much this affects me, what my body aches for despite what my mind knows.
But he’s still moving. Still lifting his hips in a measured pulse that matches my earlier writhing. I can’t stop myself from rocking against him as he thrusts up to meet me.
We’re practically fucking.
Fully clothed and with him bound to a chair, we undulate together in a primal, instinctive rhythm that’s completely beyond rational thought.
