Page 123 of The Tower

He doesn’t need to be told twice. With one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, the stretch and burn of his size pulling a strangled cry from my throat. For a heartbeat we’re perfectly still, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being completely joined.

Then he begins to move, and there’s nothing measured or careful about his rhythm. He claims me with deep, punishing strokes that have the sofa shifting beneath us, his fingers digging into my hip hard enough to leave marks, his other hand fisted in my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.

“This what you needed, Princess?” he growls against my ear, teeth catching my lobe. “To be fucked so hard you forget everything but my name?”

“Yes,” I whisper, meeting each brutal thrust, taking him deeper, my nails raking down his back hard enough to leave welts. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He shifts the angle, driving against that perfect spot with each stroke, and I feel myself climbing rapidly toward another peak.

“I’m not stopping, Princess.” Sweat beads on his brow, muscles corded with the strain of holding back. “Not until you come around my cock. Not until I feel you squeeze every last drop from me.”

His hand slips between us, his thumb finding my clit, circling with perfect pressure in counterpoint to his relentless thrusts and sending me hurtling toward the edge, this climax building even more intensely than the last.

“That’s it, baby.” His voice strained but no less dominant. “Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart. Now, Princess. Come for me.”

As if my body obeys his command, I explode, waves of pleasure so intense they’re almost pain crashing through me. I’m vaguely aware of screaming his name, of my body clenching around him with rhythmic pulses as my back arches off the sofa.

He follows moments later with a guttural roar, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one final time, his release hot and pulsing inside me. His entire body goes rigid before he collapses onto me, his weight a welcome anchor as I float in the aftermath of truly touching heaven.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks, capable only of ragged breathing and occasional tremors of aftershock. His face is buried in the crook of my neck, his heartbeat thundering against my chest, his body still joined with mine.

Finally, he lifts his head, looking down at me with an expression that’s both satisfied and strangely vulnerable. “I was going to offer you a tour,” he says, voice raspy and worn. His fingers trace the curve of my cheek with unexpected tenderness. “But somehow we got sidetracked.”

I laugh, the sound free and genuine despite my exhaustion. “I’d say this was a perfect start to the tour.” My voice is hoarse from screaming. “Very … hands-on.”

His answering grin is boyish, transforming his usually serious face into something younger, more carefree. “There’s wine in the cellar,” he offers. “How about champagne? Seems appropriate for a celebration.”

“Mmm,” I murmur, running my hands down his back, enjoying the play of muscles beneath my fingers. “Champagne sounds perfect.”

He kisses me once more before reluctantly disentangling himself and standing. I take advantage of the opportunity to admire his naked form—all lean muscle and elegant lines making up pure masculine perfection. He pulls on his suit pants, leaving the waistband unfastened in a way that’s casually, devastatingly sexy.

“Don’t move,” he orders, and there’s just enough command in his voice to send a fresh surge of desire through me. “I’ll be right back.”

I watch him disappear down a hallway, then stretch languorously, enjoying the pleasant ache in muscles thoroughly used. The sofa is incredibly comfortable, the view through the windows peaceful. For the first time in recent memory, I feel completely at ease, unafraid of what might happen next. And mostly because of Liam Grimm, the man I used to consider my enemy.

He returns bearing a bottle and two glasses, his chest still bare, his hair adorably mussed. Less the calculated businessman and more the man I’ve come to … care for? Trust? Want?

All of the above, and perhaps more. I’m not ready to put a name to the emotions swirling inside me, but I can’t deny they exist. Strong, complex feelings for this man who has been so many things. Enemy, captor, protector. And now something else entirely. Friend, I think, and lover.

He pops the cork with practiced ease, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “To victory,” he says, filling both glasses before handing one to me.

I sit up, unself-conscious in my nudity, and accept the champagne. “To freedom,” I counter, clinking my glass against his.

The first sip is cold and crisp, bubbles dancing on my tongue. “This is good,” I say with appreciation.

“Dom Pérignon,” he confirms. “2008. One of the best years.”

I take another sip, savoring the complex flavors. “You know a lot about champagne.”

He shrugs, settling beside me on the sofa. “I know a little about a lot of things.”

“And a lot about some very specific things,” I add, thinking of his skills in the bedroom. In the shower. On the sofa.

His laugh is low and warm. “I’ve never had complaints in that department,” he says, apparently reading my mind.

“Nor will you from me,” I assure him, leaning in for a champagne-flavored kiss.

What begins as playful quickly turns heated again. The champagne is set aside, barely tasted, as hands and mouths find more interesting ways to celebrate our victory. This time is slower, more exploratory, as if we’re both finally allowing ourselves to savor what we’ve only taken in desperate gulps before.