Page 62 of His Forced Bride
Never in my life have I met a more infuriating man, and this one, nearly twice my age, seems to think he owns me.
And my fucking God, do I want him to own me.
Gone is any rational thought about my business or my employees and the only coherent thing I can latch on to is how desperately I need to be touched.
His hot breath on my skin, the throb of my pulse in my neck, and the press of his cock on my thigh are hypnotizing.
What the fuck is he doing to me?
It's like he's drugged me and I can't resist him.
"We have nothing more to discuss."
I try to pull away, but he doesn't let me go.
His eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I want him to find.
"Don't we?"
The heat between us is suffocating, undeniable, terrifying in its intensity.
I can't catch my breath.
I don’t even want to blink.
I hate him, and in the same fucking breath, I need him.
Between my legs, inside me, on top of me.
Fuck if I don't hate myself now too for wanting him.
He releases my wrists and frames my face with his hands.
"Tell me to stop."
I should.
Every rational thought demands it.
But rationality abandoned me the moment Oleg told me about the warehouse, about my people lying hurt because of choices I made, alliances I accepted.
"I can't."
His fingers tighten on my jaw, his thumbs grazing my cheekbones, and the darkness in his gaze burns hotter than fire.
“You can’t,” he repeats, the corner of his mouth curving in triumph.
“Good. Because I don’t intend to stop.”
His mouth crushes mine before I can spit back an insult.
The kiss is hard, bruising, his tongue driving past my lips as if claiming more than my body, claiming my very breath.
My hands, free now, ball against his chest.
I shove, but he’s immovable, and the taste of whiskey mixed with him has me swallowing my resistance instead of voicing it.
I’m panting when he tears his mouth away, only to drag it down the side of my neck.
