He shudders. His grip tightens, bruising in its intensity, every muscle screaming restraint. Training. Duty. The instinct telling him I’m a line he cannot cross. The promise he made to Hutchinson. The promise he made to himself.
“Boyd. Please don’t stop.”
It isn’t the touch. I understand that now, watching the war crack open across his face. He held against my hands on his skin, against my mouth, against every reckless thing I hurled at him for three days. What he can’t hold against is the surrender. That one word,please, handed over like a gift instead of sprung like a trap. I give him the only thing this man has never learned to refuse. Control.
The restraint snaps.
A physical vibration shatters his control. The wall comes down.
“Fuck it.”
He surges up.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
A full-scale raid.
His lips burn hot, wet, tasting of coffee and salt. He devours me. No asking, no testing. He takes my mouth like he claims territory, his tongue sweeping inside, rough and demanding.
I open to him and surrender.
His hands slide up my back, under my shirt. His palms scrape rough against my skin, calloused and hot. He traces my spine, not with reverence, but with ownership.
He breaks the kiss, his breath blowing harshly on my cheek.
“You sure you want this?” His voice drops to a growl, vibrating through my skin.
“Yes.”
He grips my waist and spins me.
The world tilts.
My back hits the rug. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He climbs over me instantly, a heavy, solid weight blocking out the light. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, effortlessly restraining me.
He settles between my legs, his heavy thighs forcing mine apart.
He looms over me. Massive from this angle, a wall of muscle, scars, and intent.
“I warned you.” He stares down at me, his gaze tracking the flush spreading down my neck. “I told you I wasn’t safe. I told you I wasn’t gentle.”
“I don’t want gentle.”
The admission hangs in the air, naked and true.
He smiles. A terrifying, predatory thing.
“Good. Because I’m fresh out of gentle.” He releases my wrists only to grip the hem of my shirt. “Up.”
I lift my arms. He strips the shirt off in one motion, tossing it aside. He looks at me. He takes in the lace bra, the shallow work of my lungs, the pulse beating frantically in my throat.
“Beautiful.” He runs a hand down my stomach, his palm rasping against my skin. He traces the line of my ribs, possessing them. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“No, you’re not.”
He leans down. He bites the sensitive cord of my neck, hard enough to leave a mark.
