Page 70 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“I need you.” His voice scrapes, stripped of pride.

I kiss him. It’s five years of fury, one night of memory, Patrick’s rot, Moscow’s locks, and every unanswered question crashing through my hands as I grip his shirt and pull him down.

Dmitri makes a sound against my mouth, and the last of his restraint goes with it. His mouth crashes back into mine with a groan that vibrates through my ribs. I bite his lower lip, hard, and he grunts but doesn't pull away. His hands grip my waist, fingers digging in like he's afraid I'll bolt.

Good. Be afraid.

“You're impossible,” I say against his teeth.

“You started it.” He walks me backward until my hips hit the edge of the library table. Papers crumple and scatter. I don’t care. Let Patrick’s pattern go to hell.

Then he pulls back, and his eyes are wild, blown dark, jaw tight. He looks at me like he's making a decision that will ruin us both.

“I'm not going anywhere with⁠—”

He bends, hooks one arm behind my knees and the other across my back, and lifts me off the ground like I weigh nothing.

“Put me down!” I slam my fist against his shoulder. “Dmitri⁠—”

“No.”

He carries me out of the library and down the corridor, his stride long and purposeful. I pound his chest twice more, and he doesn't even flinch. My legs kick uselessly against his grip. The bastard is built like a wall, and every muscle in his arms is locked around me with infuriating control.

“You think this is charming?” I grab the back of his hair and pull. “Caveman bullshit?”

“I think you need to stop running from me for five minutes.” He shoulders through a door into a bathroom I haven't seen before—his, clearly, dark tile, glass-walled shower already steaming because someone left it running. He sets me down on the vanity counter, and my hands grip the marble edge on reflex.

“Five minutes is generous for you,” I snap.

His hand catches my chin. “Keep talking.”

I shove his chest. He catches my wrist and holds it, his thumb pressing against my pulse, which is hammering so loud he can probably feel it.

“Get undressed,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to⁠—”

“Cara.” His voice drops to gravel. “Get undressed, or I’ll do it for you.”

My stomach flips. I hold his gaze while I pull layers over my head, while he does the same—faster, rougher, buttons popping off when they won’t cooperate. When I hesitate at the last piece, he steps forward and takes care of it himself, peeling it down my hips with hands that aren’t gentle. I return the favor, shoving his clothes down until there's nothing between us.

He’s hard. Thick and flushed and curving up against his stomach, and looking at him makes my mouth water even through the anger.

“Get in the shower.” His gaze rakes down my body, slow, proprietary, and I feel every inch of it like a touch. “Now.”

I step past him and into the glass enclosure. Hot water hits my shoulders, my back, runs down between my breasts, and I tip my head back. The steam wraps around us. He follows me in, pulls the door shut, and the space shrinks until there's nothing but heat and skin and the sound of water hitting tile.

“Still furious?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

He grips my hip and spins me around to face the wall.

“Hands on the tile.”

“You're insufferable⁠—”

His palm presses flat between my shoulder blades and pushes me forward. My hands catch the wet tile. The position is obscene—bent at the waist, back arched, ass pressed against him, water streaming down my spine and between my thighs. I feel his cock slide against me, not inside, just along the slick seam of me, and my legs shake.