Page 31 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Dom, please.”
I push in, slow and steady. Inch by inch. Her warmth grips me tight, drawing a curse from deep in my chest. Her nails dig into my shoulders as I stretch her open, her jaw falling slack as she takes me fully.
“God,” she breathes.
I pause when I’m all the way inside her, both of us frozen. The fit is perfect. Like her body was made to hold me, like this was inevitable from the moment she walked into my life.
I pull back slowly, then thrust again, watching her eyes flutter shut.
“Look at me,” I say.
She obeys. Those big eyes lock onto mine, and I start to move. Deep strokes, unhurried but firm. I want her to feel every inch, to remember this later, and ache for more.
Her moans rise with each movement. She wraps her arms around my neck and clings to me as I fuck her slow and deep. Her back arches, pushing her breasts against my chest, and I take a nipple into my mouth again, sucking until she cries out.
I grip her thighs tighter and thrust harder, the sound of our bodies filling the cellar. Wet. Wild. Real.
Her breath comes in quick bursts. She’s close again. I feel it in the way she clenches around me, in the frantic roll of her hips, in the way her hands grab at anything they can.
“Right there,” she gasps. “Don’t stop. Right there.”
I fuck her harder, faster, our rhythm growing messy and desperate. Her cries echo against the stone walls, and I press my forehead to hers, swallowing every sound she gives me.
“Say it,” I groan. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Dom.”
Her words tip me over the edge. I thrust once, twice, then spill into her, groaning as I lose control. She follows seconds later, shuddering around me, her legs wrapped tight around my waist, pulling me as deep as she can.
We stay there, locked together, sweating and trembling, the taste of each other still lingering in every breath.
And even though the world outside that cellar still wants to pull us apart, in this moment, nothing exists but her and me.
Chapter Nine
Sophie
Four days.
Four days of cold silence, of passing each other in hallways like strangers, of pretending that what happened in the wine cellar was just another regrettable mistake.
Four days of him leaving for work before I wake up and coming home after I’ve already retreated to my room.
Four days of me returning to work and sitting in that sterile office at Moretti Group, doing absolutely nothing productive while Dom’s assistant sends me increasingly pointed emails about pending assignments.
I delete each one without reading past the subject line.
If Dom wants to pretend I don’t exist, fine. Two can play that game.
But pretending is harder than I thought it would be. Especially when I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, still taste the whiskey and desperation from his kiss. Still remember the way he looked at me when I told him he wasn’t as cruel as he wanted me to think.
“You’re being ridiculous, Sophie,” I mutter, staring at my computer screen without seeing it. “It was just sex. Complicated sex between two people who hate each other.”
Except I’m not sure I hate him anymore. And that’s the problem.
Because somewhere between his confession about wanting to kill that mam for touching me and the way he whispered my name in the wine cellar, something shifted. Something I can’t afford to acknowledge if I want to maintain any semblance of sanity.
Or self-preservation.
