Page 20 of Taken By the Outlaw

The last part catches me off guard, hooks something deep in my chest. "How do I make you feel?"

She looks away, cheeks flushing. "Like I'm losing myself. Like I'm becoming someone I don't recognize." Her voice drops so low I have to strain to hear her. "Someone who craves things she shouldn't."

My body responds instantly to the admission, heat coiling low in my stomach. I move closer, drawn by some force I can't resist.

"What things, Emilia?" I ask, needing to hear her say it. "What do you crave?"

Her eyes lift to mine, vulnerability and defiance warring in their hazel depths. "You," she admits. "Even though I shouldn't. Even though it makes no sense. Even though you've taken my freedom." Her chin lifts slightly. "I ran because I'm afraid of how much I want to stay."

The confession hits me like a physical blow, rocking me back on my heels. In all my scenarios, my justifications for keeping her, I never considered that she might be fighting an attraction as powerful as my own. That she might want me as desperately as I want her.

"You could have been killed tonight," I say, closing the distance between us. "Or worse."

"I know." Her hands uncurl from around her body, hanging at her sides in a gesture of surrender that makes something primal in me stir. "But I wasn't. Because you found me."

"I will always find you," I repeat my promise from earlier. My hand rises of its own accord, fingers tracing the redness on her neck. "But I'd rather not have to. I'd rather keep you safe right here. With me."

She doesn't pull away from my touch, instead leaning into it slightly. "For how long, Clark? Until you get bored? Until I'm no longer a novelty? Until the next heist, the next danger?"

The questions surprise me with their insight. She sees more clearly than I expected—the transient nature of my world, the risks that define my life. But she's wrong about one thing.

"You're not a novelty," I tell her, my thumb still stroking her neck. "You're a necessity."

The admission startles us both. I didn't plan to say it, didn't even know I felt it until the words were out. But they're true. In the span of mere days, this woman has become something I can't imagine being without. The thought of her gone—back to her small life, her responsibilities, her freedom—creates a hollow ache in my chest I've never experienced before.

Our eyes lock, and I see my own surprise reflected in hers. Then something else replaces it—heat, need, the same desperate hunger that's clawing at my insides.

"Clark," she whispers, my name a plea on her lips.

I break. All the control I've been clinging to shatters in an instant. My hands find her face, cradling it with a gentleness that belies the storm raging inside me. Our lips meet in a kiss that's anything but gentle—desperate, consuming, a clash of tongues and teeth and shared breath. She responds immediately, arms wrapping around my neck, body pressing against mine as if she can't get close enough.

I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist instinctively, and carry her to the bed. We fall together, a tangle of limbs and need. I tear at her clothes, needing to see her, all of her, to assure myself she's unharmed, that she's still mine. She helps, fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers, equally desperate.

When she's naked beneath me, I pause, drinking in the sight of her—pale skin flushed with desire, eyes heavy-lidded, lips swollen from my kisses. Mine. The word pulses through me with each heartbeat. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep.

"Never again," I growl, my hands roaming her body, checking for injuries, claiming every inch. "Never run from me again."

"I won't," she promises, arching into my touch. "I can't."

I believe her. In this moment, with desire coursing through us both, I believe her completely. My mouth follows the path of my hands, tasting her skin, marking her neck, her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast. She moans beneath me, fingers tangling in my hair, guiding me where she wants me.

The knowledge that she wants this—wants me—as badly as I want her is intoxicating. I take my time, despite the urgency pounding through my veins. I want her mindless with pleasure, want to drive every thought but me from her mind.

When I finally slide inside her, we both gasp at the sensation. She's tight, still new to this, but wet and ready for me. Our fingers brush as she reaches between us, and I feel a spark—like electricity jumping between our skin, jolting through my entire body. It's more than physical—this connection between us. More than lust or possession or control.

I set a punishing pace, unable to hold back, driven by the need to claim her completely. She meets me thrust for thrust, her inexperience compensated by enthusiasm, by a natural responsiveness that drives me wild. Her nails dig into my back, marking me as I've marked her.

"Mine," I growl against her neck, the word torn from somewhere primal inside me. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasps, the word breaking on a moan as I hit a spot that makes her arch beneath me. "I'm yours, Clark."

The admission sends me spiraling toward the edge. I reach between us, finding the bundle of nerves that will send her over with me. I need to feel her come apart, need the proof that I can give her pleasure even in the midst of this possessive claiming.

She shatters beautifully, my name a cry on her lips as her body tightens around mine. I follow her over, burying myself deep inside her, emptying myself with a groan that sounds like it's being ripped from my soul.

In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, breath gradually slowing. I pull her close, unable to let go even now, some part of me still afraid she'll run if given the chance. She nestles against me, her head on my chest, fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

"I was so scared," she admits softly into the darkness. "When those men grabbed me. I thought..."

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