Page 145 of The Contract

Then his mouth crashes down on mine, savage and devastating. His kiss is brutal perfection, a violent collision of teeth and tongues, possessive without mercy. Every raw, punishing stroke steals another trembling thread of my control, stripping me down to nothing but a shameless, needy mess in his arms.

When he pulls away, he does it slowly—cruelly savoring the taste of my surrender still burning on his tongue.

“Kennedy isn’t a hostage.” He says it like he knows. Like I should believe him. “Did it ever occur to you she wants him? Craves him? Loves him?”

My voice fractures, scalding hatred boiling over. “No. She could never love the monster who killed Da.”

His jaw tightens. Eyes dead. “Sorry to break the news to you, but we don’t choose who we love. Just who we fuck.”

My eyes snap to his, fury and agony bleeding together, scorching hot. He isn’t talking about Kennedy. He’s talking about me. “I could never love you.”

The words slice sharper than intended—less a broken plea, more a vicious fuck you.

But they don’t wound him. Instead, they ignite something darker, something twisted and feral in those ocean-deep eyes. “Good. Then fucking me will be that much easier.”

He slides the knife effortlessly through the thin fabric of my dress with chilling precision.

One inch.

Then another.

Exposing my heavy breasts.

“I hate you,” I whisper, a desperate, trembling defiance as he drags the ruined fabric aside, exposing me to his merciless gaze.

“I know.”

The blade taps once, twice—icy metal grazing overheated flesh.

One nipple. Then the other. Without warning, he licks, sucking each until the wave of ice and fire shock like raw voltage beneath my skin.

It hurts beautifully—so beautifully it drags free tears I didn’t think I had left.

His hand slides around my throat, thumb pressing boldly into my pulse, testing its frantic rhythm. “Tell me you want this.”

My thoughts scatter, spiraling into a chaotic whirlpool of fear, lust, and wild, aching need.

God, I want him.

Too much.

“I want…”

Shit. I can’t breathe.

His hand lowers, grips his cock in long, unhurried strokes. Every slow movement releases a pre-cum. It strips another piece of my composure. Of my mind.

“It’s not too late, Pom,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Walk away, or…”

His eyes lock on mine, blazing and hungry, searching for surrender. Permission.

“Or?” I rasp.

His mouth finds my skin, kissing, licking, grazing over my breasts.

The knife still gleams in his grip, still very much in his control.

“Or those panties are coming off.”

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