Page 159 of Traitor

My mind is in a haze when he pulls back, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath uneven, hot against my lips.

"You're with me tonight, baby," he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with certainty. Like it's already decided. Like there was never any other option.

A sound leaves my throat. Not a word. Not a protest. Just something helpless and needy and not me. But fuck, I don't care. I don't care because I want him. Inside me. Around me. Everywhere.

I never wanted a man before. Not like this.

He leans back, tilting his head, studying me. Like he can already see inside my mind, like he already knows the answer before I even say it. His smirk stretches slow, indulgent, smug as hell. He knows exactly what he's doing to me.

"Let's have a drink." His voice is smooth, tempting. "What's your poison?"

I blink, trying to shake off the haze, trying to remember how to fucking think. I can't look away from him. I can't.

"Whiskey sour," I finally say, my voice stronger than I feel.

He motions to the bar, repeating my order to someone, never breaking eye contact. A corner of his mouth lifts. Dangerous. Confident. A little cocky.

"We'll take the drinks to my room." His tone is casual, but there's nothing casual about the way his eyes burn into me. "You up for that?"

The question stuns me for half a second.

Am I up for that? YES! Every nerve in my body screams yes. My mind howls it. There's no hesitation. No doubt. No regret waiting in the shadows. He's mine tonight.

"I'm up for that," I say, my smile matching his.

His victorious grin tells me he was expecting that answer. Smug asshole. But I like it. I like it too much.

A glass slides onto the bar beside us. He hands it to me, but before I can take a sip, his arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me against his side, leading me through the clubhouse crowd.

He leans in, his breath hot at my ear. "What's your name, baby?"

His voice is lethal.

Intoxicating.

Designed to ruin me.

"Elyna," I say, turning my head slightly, my lips almost brushing his jaw. Fuck, he smells good. "Ely for short. Yours?"

He points to the patch on his chest. Bones. President.

My eyes widen. Oh, shit.

"You're the Prez?" I blurt, my stomach plummeting.

I didn't mean to ask that out loud. Fuck. This is bad. Really fucking bad.

What am I doing? I should stop this. Right now. This is not a good idea.

His grip tightens. He feels it. The hesitation.

And then he stops walking.

The noise of the clubhouse fades, leaving us in the dim hallway, a door on either side, one in front. He turns to me, his fingers tilting my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Yeah, I'm the Prez." His knuckles graze my cheek, soft, soothing, despite the fire in his eyes. "It just means I rule a bunch of rowdy bikers. Nothing more." His touch lingers, his thumb barely brushing my skin. "Stay with me, baby. There's no reason to panic."

And just like that, I'm lost again.

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