The hem falls to her mid-thigh. The sleeves swallow her hands. She smells like my blood, my sweat, and the graveyard dirt of my existence.
The visual is devastating. Seeing her wrapped in the tactical shirt I put on her, marked by my hands and my mouth, shatters the last thread of restraint holding my sanity together.
Mine.
I grab the lapels of my shirt. I haul her flush against my chest again. Her soft breasts crush flat against my scarred pecs. The fabric is the only barrier between our skin.
I slide my hands down her back. I grab the swell of her ass. I lift her straight off the floor.
Priya yelps, grabbing my shoulders for purchase.
I set her down on the edge of the therapy table. I step between her spread legs. I am standing now. She is sitting high above me. The angle is perfect. The angle is deadly.
My face is level with her chest. Her thighs bracket my hips, and her center presses against my lower stomach.
My hands push under the hem of my shirt. I find the waistband of her slacks. I pop the clasp. I drag the zipper down. The metal teeth grind loudly in the quiet room.
"Nico."
She breathes my name again. She is begging. I don’t know what she’s begging for. I only know I’m going to give it to her.
My fingers hook inside the waistband of her pants. I push the fabric down over her hips. I drag her slacks and her underwear down her thighs in one violent, impatient motion. They pool around her knees, trapping her legs.
She is exposed to me.
The heat radiating from between her thighs hits my face. The scent of her arousal is overwhelming. It is musk and spice and raw need.
I look down.
The slick, wet gleam of her arousal completely coats her engorged pussy. She is dripping soaking-wet juices down her thighs, entirely ready for my intrusion.
I reach up, cupping her wet pussy with my massive, calloused hand.
Priya screams.
The sharp sound echoes off the clinic walls as she arches her spine off the table, pinning her hands behind her.
My palm presses flat against her drenched skin, dragging rough callouses directly across her highly sensitive, swollen clit.
She thrashes violently against the vinyl, her wet thighs clenching tight around my waist.
I rub the heel of my hand over her dripping clit in a ruthless, heavy rhythm. The wet friction creates a loud, rhythmic slapping sound that fills the sterile room.
"Please, Nico."
She is sobbing, breathless and desperate, her hips bucking upward as she chases the heavy pressure of my hand. I slide my thick fingers down, parting her wet pussy lips wide. Her slick fluids thoroughly coat my hand. I spread her wetness over her raw skin before pressing my middle finger against the tight, clenching opening of her pussy, testing the desperate stretch of her anatomy.
The urge to to unbuckle my pants, tear my cock free, and bury myself to the hilt inside her tight, burning heat is a madness clawing at my skull.
I want to penetrate. I want to claim the deepest part of her. I want to fill her until she can only breathe my name.
I can’t.
The sudden, brutal realization slams into my brain like a freight train.
I am a soldier. The perimeter is not secure. My men have not finished the sweep. The camera feeds are not up. The doors are locked, but glass breaks. The Bellanti threat is not neutralized. I can’t blind myself by burying myself inside her. If I go inside her now, the entire world could burn down and I would not notice. I would let them slit my throat as long as I was allowed to die thrusting into her heat.
I must protect her. I can’t lose my mind. Not yet.
