“Then explain the rules.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “There aren’t any. Just consequences.”
A sharp inhale betrayed her arousal, tension knotting at the base of her spine. “And if I want them?”
His control fractured—sharply, suddenly—just enough to let heat and hunger take the wheel.
He kissed her—hard and claiming, a surge of heat exploding between them. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck,not rough, but commanding, anchoring her as his mouth took hers in a kiss that was all dominance and need.
A gasp slipped from her lips, sharp and instinctive, as if the air had turned molten in her lungs, and he took it as an invitation, claiming her mouth with a deep, consuming kiss, tongue stroking hers, coaxing and consuming all at once. The world narrowed to the press of his body, the searing heat of his mouth, and the wild rush of sensation spiraling through her.
She clutched at his shirt, dizzy from the force of it, her breath caught somewhere between surrender and defiance as her body arched instinctively toward his. When he finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her knees weak, and the air between them crackled with something that felt dangerously close to ignition.
And he knew from that moment on, the line between duty and desire might be blurred beyond recognition.
7
EVANGELINE
His mouth was kissing her again when he spun her, pressing her back to the exposed brick, the impact jolting a gasp from her lips before it melted into a darker thrill. The cool grit of the wall scraped against her back, sharp and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the molten heat flaring beneath her skin. The wall was rough, but his body was fire—unrelenting, branding her with every breath. Dawson’s hand braced above her head, the other sliding up her arm to lift her wrists, locking them in place, holding her as if he had every right to.
She should’ve resisted. She didn’t. Not when his chest crushed against her curves with bruising intent. Not when his thigh pressed tight between hers, spreading her open until her breath caught. Not when his palm slipped under the silk of her blouse, calloused and commanding, and closed around her breast with a pressure that sent sparks shooting through her.
She moaned, soft and unguarded, her body arching toward the touch like it had been waiting forever to be claimed. Her head tipped back, spine curving, offering more. The pad of his thumb circled her nipple, slow and punishing, the sensation pulling taut across her nerves until her legs trembled. The airbetween them crackled, heat unfurling like smoke through her blood, pooling low and urgent as his mouth dragged along her jaw.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she gazed up at him, heat and uncertainty warring just under the surface. Dawson’s grip softened, his thumb sweeping over her pulse as if to remind her that, beneath all the intensity, her choices were still her own. The room crackled with unspoken questions, the air thick with the weight of expectation and the ache for surrender.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek, and in a voice that was more invitation than command, he murmured, “Kneel for me.”
Evangeline’s breath caught. Her first instinct was to refuse, old pride rising up—her father’s voice in her head, the years of holding tight to control. She clenched her fists, fighting the urge to retreat, to turn this into a battle of wills. But then she looked up at Dawson and saw not dominance but quiet patience.
Her knees trembled. She stared at the carpet, heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. For one dizzying second, every old fear and expectation roared to life: Don’t let them see you yield. Don’t let go. Never show weakness. The words were ghosts, crowding the space between her and the man waiting, unhurried, in front of her.
She could have walked away right then. She could have spat out a retort, armored up, and retreated to the well-worn shell of control. But she didn’t want to—not really. She wanted to see what would happen if she let herself fall.
Drawing a shaky breath, she tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. There was no mockery in his gaze, only a steady patience that dared her to believe she was safe with Dawson. The decision was hers—no pressure, no threat, just a space for honesty. If she wanted it, she could take it. If she didn’t, she was still free.
With trembling hands, she lowered herself to her knees, feeling the rug’s scratch under her skin, every nerve alight. The rush wasn’t just fear; it was relief, too—liberation, of a kind she had never tasted.
She was coming apart under his touch, every nerve exposed and trembling, desperate for more—for his command, his possession, the complete undoing that only he could give. A quiver started in her chest and slipped lower, heat curling beneath her skin, spreading through her hips in a pulse of reckless need—for everything—when her phone rang.
The shrill interruption sliced through the tension.
Dawson stilled, jaw clenched. For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he let go and stepped back, leaving her skin tingling with absence. She fumbled for her clutch, hands shaking, her body still humming with unsatisfied need.
It was her secretary. "Reminder, ma’am—you have the Texas Gulf Fund gala tonight. The other executives and the Board will be expecting you. Your father will be expecting you to fill in for him. Black tie. Photos. The usual. Should I coordinate with Mr. Rhodes’ secretary?"
“No. From here on out Mr. Rhodes and I won’t be attending anything together, but I appreciate the reminder call.”
Of course. The fundraiser.
She muttered something resembling thanks and hung up. Dawson watched her from across the room, his arms folded, expression unreadable.
“I need a shower.”
He didn’t stop her.
The water was frigid, but it did the job—sort of. She leaned into the punishing spray, forehead pressed to the chilled tile, the water biting against her overheated skin. It was a cruel contrast—sharp needles of cold that only seemed to drive the heat deeper, chasing it into corners of her body the watercouldn’t reach. The pounding spray echoed in her ears, loud and relentless, like her pulse thundering in her throat, mirroring the chaos still churning inside her. Her breasts ached, her thighs still tingled where his leg had pressed, and the heat he’d stirred clung to her skin in defiance of the cold. She could still feel him—his voice rough and commanding, the scrape of his stubble, the brutal promise of his grip—and it wasn’t the water that made her shiver.