Page 44 of Defending What's Mine

“I’m not as fragile as I look. Fuck me, Asher, please. As hard as you can. As rough as you want to go.”

With one hand I slap her ass, with the other I hold onto the rope binding her wrists. “You asked for it,” I tell her, slamming my cock deep inside her with one punishing stroke.

She moans out long and hard as I bury myself to the hilt. I give her a few seconds to acclimate to my size before I start thrusting back and forth. “Oh, Asher,” she groans.

“You wanted this, Charlotte. So fucking take it,” I tell her, slamming my dick deeper inside her. I keep fucking, making sure she knows exactly who she belongs to. My heart’s a jackhammer, as my body’s on fire with need. “This is what you asked for.”

She moans and groans, her body desperately trying to keep up. I nearly black out as I keep pounding away inside her. “Asher, I love this,” she moans out. “Keep fucking me.”

I slam even harder, my free hand reaching around to toy with her clit. I’m not gentle in the way I play with it. Not even a little bit. I pulse my finger in time with each stroke of my cock. “I’m going to fill your body with my seed, and then I’m gonna fuck you even harder. Don’t think for one second this is gonna be our only time tonight. I’m going to have you begging for surrender.”

“Never,” she challenges. “I’ll never want you to stop.”

“Promise?” I could fuck this woman for the rest of my life. Part of me wants to. Actually all of me wants to. This woman has now ruined me for others.

“I promise. Keep fucking me, Asher. Fuck me all night.”

I untie her wrists, sliding out of her long enough to flip her around. She clings onto me, her fingernails digging into my shoulders. I lift one leg over my hip, and slam back inside her. I gaze into her eyes, my mouth crushing over hers. I slide my tongue over hers, letting our kiss bind us together.

“You’re fucking mine, got that?” I tell her. “This is a demand. You’re mine.” I keep pushing my cock in and out of her, over and over. I squeeze her ass as my other hand wraps around the base of her throat. “Tell me you’re mine, Charlotte.”

Her eyes slam into mine, her promise holding true. “I’m yours.”

“You’re damn right you are. I own this body. This sweet fucking pussy.” I keep slamming into her, letting her know exactly who she belongs to.

“I’m coming,” she calls out, and I chase her orgasm down with my own. My body doesn’t stop spilling my seed deep inside her.

Fuck, what has she done to me?It’s never been like this before.Ever.

The resort’sballroom looks like something ripped from a glossy benefit-gala spread: crystal chandeliers dripping light,linen-draped cocktail rounds, a silent-auction table glittering with bid sheets and golf getaways. The charity du jour is a children’s literacy fund, but everyone here is more interested in social optics than storybooks. I post up at the end of the bar—club soda in hand, eyes on the elevator bank—scanning reflections in polished silver trays, noting exits, cataloging faces I don’t recognize.

Charlotte’s still upstairs dressing. Thirty minutes ago she shooed me out with the promise of a “showstopper.” Whatever that means, it’s derailed my focus all evening. I force my gaze across the crowd: Nancy Sinclair preening near the stage, Wade prowling the perimeter like a wolf in a bespoke suit, and a half-dozen potential hired guns in rented tuxedos.

Elevator bell. Doors part.

My pulse forgets how to beat.

Charlotte steps out in a floor-length scarlet gown that skims every curve before spilling into a subtle mermaid flare. The color is audacious against her pale skin; the neckline, a daring slash bracketed by collarbones. Her hair’s swept to one side as soft waves tumble over one shoulder, exposing the elegant slope of her neck. Tiny diamond droplets glint at her ears. She’s not merely dressed; she’s weaponized.

Conversations around me fade to static. I set the glass down, missing the coaster completely, and cross the marble floor before my brain signs the permission slip.

She spots me halfway, lips curving into a smile equal parts shy and wicked. “Is it too much?” she whispers when I reach her.

“It might be lethal,” I answer, and her laugh spills across my nerves like warm brandy.

I offer my arm. “Dance with me before the room finds its tongue.”

She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and we weave through throngs of jewel-tones to the parquet square where a string quartet is easing into a Sinatra standard. I fold her into my hold, my right palm against the small of her back, left curling her fingers, and the rest of the crowd blurs. Her perfume—something subtle, hints of jasmine—distracts every tactical algorithm in my head.

“You clean up well, Mr. Hawke,” she says, eyes sparkling.

“Occupational hazard,” I murmur, guiding her into a slow sway. “You, on the other hand, just set off the sprinkler system in my brain.”

A surprised flush blooms high on her cheeks. “Compliments? From the stoic bodyguard? Must be a full moon.”

“Maybe I’m trying to sell the engagement,” I tease. “Public displays of besotted admiration and all that.”

“Mission accomplished,” she breathes, and I nearly forget which foot to lead with.

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