Page 92 of When the Storm Breaks
Step.
“The fact that I think about you—naked, wet, in my shower—every day? That’s a problem.”
Step.
“Another man’s hands on you? That’s my fucking problem.”
Step.
“I can’t stop. I can’t get you out of my head. That’stheproblem.”
I should stop this. I should say something.
But I don’t. I can’t. I won’t.
He’s on me before I can even react. His fingers lift to my cheek—not rough, not gentle, but something in between. A touch that demands my full attention.
My breath catches. My pulse stutters.
I should shove him away. I should be angry. But I’m not. Becausehis eyes aren’t just angry. They’refurious. Wild.
Possessive in a way that makes something dark and needy coil low in my stomach.
A violent shiver races through me.
His jaw clenches, something breaking behind his eyes. Like he’s fighting himself. Like he knows he shouldn’t.
His voice drops.
“Fuck it.”
Rough. Desperate. Guttural.
Haiyden grips my face with both hands, his hold insistent, controlling—like heneedsto feel me,needsto claim me. His mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath, devouring.
His lips are hot, demanding.
His teeth graze my lower lip before his tongue slides against mine.
And I melt.
A sound breaks from his throat—a groan, a growl, something desperate and aching. He turns us, walking me backward, his mouth never leaving mine. Every brush of fabric against skin burns.
My hands press to his chest, fingers splaying wide over heat and muscle. His heartbeat pounds beneath my palm, thick and heavy, like he’s barely holding himself back.
But heisholding back. I can feel it.
The restraint in his grip.
The way his fingers twitch like he wants to grab me harder. Like he’s at war with himself.
And then suddenly, he’s not.
His hands tear from my face and find the places the man touched me. His mouth follows.
His teeth sink into my shoulder first, hard, pulling a startled gasp from my lips. He soothes it instantly, tongue sweeping over the sting, but it doesn’t soften the intent.
It brands me.
