Page 33 of Fired at the Heart

Heat floods my core. “Fuck you.”

“Is that what you want?” His other hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing on my lower lip.

I want to bite him, to make him bleed. I want?—

His mouth crashes over mine, and I’m lost. I’ll never get tired of his lips, firm, demanding, tasting of blood and adrenaline. My hands fist in his shirt, ready to push him away, but I pull him closer instead, deepening the kiss until we’re both panting.

This is dangerous. More dangerous than any firefight. My brain screams at me to stop, but my body curves into his, seeking the familiar contours, the heat we once shared. Five years of anger and betrayal melt beneath his touch, and I hate myself for it. Hate myself for wanting what I had before. His hands, his mouth, his protection, his love.

I tear my mouth away. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I know.” His breath comes hot on my throat as he pulls me toward him.

“I still hate you.” The words catch in my throat, faltering on the lie.

“I know that, too.” His hands circle my waist, lifting me to straddle his lap, the dress riding up my thighs. “Hate me tomorrow.”

The SUV turns a corner, the momentum pressing me against his chest. I should resist. I should maintain control. But the Alpha scent of him, intensified by combat and arousal, clouds my judgment. My body recognizes its mate, even if my mind rebels at the idea.

“Just tonight.” My hands shake as I sweep them over his firm pecs, not sure if I’m convincing him or myself. “Just because of the fight.”

His hands slide down to grip my hips, positioning me so his hard cock grinds into my ass, and my body responds, my dick harden as liquid heat slicks my entrance.

“Just tonight,” he agrees, but we both know it’s a lie. After years of hunger, one night will never be enough.

Raphael buries his face in my neck, dragging in a deep breath. His stubble scrapes my sensitive skin as he pulls back, pupils blown wide with desire. “You still smell like gunpowder. Always loved that scent on you.”

His hands slide down my back, pushing under the torn fabric of my dress to palm my ass, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise. I want those marks. Want the reminder tomorrow that this was real.

The SUV hits a pothole, jolting us closer together. Raphael takes advantage, grinding his hardened cock against me through layers of fabric. My breath catches, electric pulses racing from where we connect, shooting up my spine and down to my toes.

“Missed the way you fit.” He rocks me over him with powerful hands. “Perfect.”

I want to hate my body’s immediate response, the way my thighs spread wider across his lap, how much my dick aches, how slick heat slides down my thighs. Five years of building walls, and they crumble at his touch. My hands slide between us, finding his belt buckle and working it open with practiced fingers that remember every detail of him.

Raphael catches my wrist, his grip just shy of painful. “Sure you want this?”

“Yes,” I hiss, hating how he forces me to admit it this time, but at this point, I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I yank his zipper down. “I want you to fuck me. Now.”

Triumph flashes in his expression, and he releases my wrist to grip my waist, keeping me steady as the SUV takes another turn. His right hand travels up my inner thigh, pushing the dress higher until his fingers brush the lace of my underwear.

“Fuck.” He touches the damp fabric, the evidence of my desire for him. “You’re soaked.”

His fingers push the lace aside to massage my entrance. The contact sends shockwaves through me, my body arching toward his hand. He hasn’t forgotten the pressure I crave, the roughness, but his exploration holds an edge of desperation now.

He pulls the blade from its sheath on my thigh with practiced ease, the metal catching a flash of passing streetlight. “Lift for me.”

I rise onto my knees without question, knowing Raphael would never hurt me. The cold metal of the blade kisses my inner thigh as Raphael slides it under the lace. With a quick flick of his wrist, he slices through the delicate fabric.

The rush of cool air over my exposed flesh draws a gasp from my lips. “Could have just taken them off.”

“And let you leave me?” He sheaths the knife as his free hand presses harder into my lower back. “Not a chance.”

I drag my lips along his jaw, the rough stubble scraping my sensitive skin. My teeth graze the taut column of his throat, where his pulse races beneath my mouth. The salt of his skin, laced with that unmistakable Raphael flavor, invades my senses, leaving me breathless. His fingers slide through my wetness, circling my entrance, teasing but not penetrating.

“Tell me,” I demand, raw with need as I work his cock free from his boxers. The thick, hot weight of him fills my palm, and my thumb traces the vein on the underside, drawing a groan from him. “Tell me that sorting through papers gives you this thrill. Tell me your boardroom is the place where you truly come alive.”

“It doesn’t.” The admission tears from him, rough and honest. “Nothing compares.”

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