Page 52 of Pistols & Peonies

Slowly, her breathing evens out and she comes back into herself. Her body’s still limp, but when she opens her eyes, that familiar spark of defiance ignites as she glares up at me through her lashes.

I’m so hard it’s fucking painful. I reach down to adjust myself in my slacks, her gaze dropping to track the movement before snapping back up to meet mine.

“Feel like behaving now?” I murmur, cocking a brow.

She pushes herself upright with a soft huff, legs shaking as she bends to drag her shorts and panties back into place. “You didn’t win,” she grits out hoarsely. “You just… distracted me.”

A smirk twists my mouth. “Then get out of my office and we’ll finish this later, mate.”

She flips me off, shoulder-checking me as she barges past to head for the door. “See you at home, Commander,” she quips as she yanks it open.

The door bangs shut behind her, and the sound is like a starting pistol. My own knees give, and I slam a hand down on the desk to stay upright. My pulse is a jackhammer against my ribs, my hands are fucking trembling, and every nerve ending is a live wire.

Another catastrophic mistake. Every second of it.

And I already know I’ll be making it again.

CHAPTER 18

Violet

The sun set hours ago, and the daily commuters have long since abandoned the city, but Kane still isn’t home. He hasn’t texted, hasn’t called. And if I check my phone one more time, I’ll throw it off the damn balcony.

I don’t know why I care. It’s not like I actually want him here. But it’s also not like him to say he’s going to do something and then not follow through. That’s my specialty, not his.

Derek Kane is responsible to a fault. He’s rigid and predictable, the kind of man who treats the simplest agreements like binding contracts. Which means he’d at least give me a heads-up if he decided I’m more trouble than I’m worth and fucked off back to his lakeside fortress.

I flop sideways on the couch, the smooth leather creaking under my weight. My wolf paces restlessly inside me, alternating between a low growl and a wounded whine that reverberates through my skull. The bond’s been gnawing at me since I left Kane’s office earlier, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything.

Not even the glow of the TV can distract me– which is really saying something, considering the sexual tension between the hosts of this home renovation show is off the charts. They bicker like they can’t stand each other, snapping and rolling their eyes, but it’s painfully obvious they’re sleeping together. I’ll bet they’re probably tearing each other’s clothes off the second the cameras cut.

Maybe they’re like me and Kane– enemies stuck in the world’s worst arranged mating, just waiting for privacy so they can take all that pent-up aggression out on each other’s bodies.

Tragic.

I mash the power button with a scowl and drop the remote, letting it clatter to the floor and skitter under the coffee table. It was bad enough that I let Kane fuck me in the elevator, but the way I’ve been obsessing over it ever since is truly fucking pathetic. I’ve been replaying the memory for two days straight like my own personal porno: the way he looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive, how easily he took control, slammed me against the wall, and railed me like his life depended on it.

The part of me that still hates him is furious about it. But the other part– the fucked-up, feral bitch who wanted it just as badly as he did– keeps replaying it on a loop, getting off on the thrill of how rough and dirty it was. On how little it took for me to fall apart under his hands.

I hate that it was the best sex of my life.

I hate that he ghosted me afterward.

And I especially hate that the next time I saw him, I let him shove my face into his desk and brand his handprint on my bare ass.

A sharp, embarrassed laugh bubbles up in my chest, and I slam my head back against the armrest, the impact rattling my teeth. This isn’t me. I’m not the girl who waits up for some asshole to come home. I’m not supposed to crave a man I despise.

But the universe doesn’t seem to give a shit, it just keeps slapping me with fresh humiliations, one after another, like it’s trying to see just how far I can be pushed before I break wide open.

There’s something seriously wrong with me, isn’t there?

I mean, I’ve always liked it a little rough. Teeth sharp, claws out, hands tight enough on my throat to remind me I’m still alive. That part isn’t new, but this? This is next level. I swear that first smack felt like a shot of pure adrenaline, and the second one wiped out the rest of the world entirely. Everything else faded to background noise– sight, sound, thought– until there was nothing left but the mind-numbing intensity of it and the strange, illicit heat flooding my body.

I liked it too much. Wanted it to last. Wanted more.

Then he put his mouth on me, and I came so hard I damn near blacked out.

Let’s be real, getting eaten out can be hit or miss. For me, it’s always been a miss. I’ve let a few guys try, but none of them had a clue what the hell they were doing down there. Too slobbery. Too much teeth. Too much fumbling. It always turned awkward fast, until I’d fake it just to get them to quit and move on to the good stuff.