Page 88 of Falling for the Enemy

“You.”

“That’s right. Me. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine, ever since that first time I pictured you naked and came in my own hand. Even then, I knew I’d someday have you like this.”

She whimpered, the sound completely formed of fear.

“I know it terrifies you. I’m terrified, too. But we were always meant to get here. Now, we can stop pretending and face things head-on.”

His vulnerability, raw and unfiltered, was somehow more devastating than his dominance. She reached back to grip his hip, her fingers digging into the muscle, and he groaned at the touch. When she clawed his flesh, his pace intensified, building toward another climax.

“We’re finishing together,” he commanded, his voice rough with need. “I love it when you come with me. The grip of your tight pussy…That flutter…The sounds you make⁠—”

Her orgasm hit with a sharp peak that had her gasping and arching, and he followed her over the edge. Pounding into her, his hips stuttered and stalled as his release poured from his pulsing cock, so swollen inside of her, his moans sounded almost pained.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck as an unguarded cry of pleasure escaped him. They lay in a tangle of limbs, breathing heavily, his arms still locked around her, his face against her hair, as his heart hammered against her back.

If he spoke, he’d say too much. Instinctively, she tried to move, but his hold only tightened.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

She stilled. She couldn’t escape, even if she wanted to.

Like a tea kettle filling with steam, the pressure slowly built. She had to break the silence. Had to bring them back to casual familiarity before things truly went too far.

“I’m thirsty,” she finally managed.

His body seemed fused to her flesh, and pulling apart from each other was an experience in itself. The second she could move, she sat up and refilled her glass with the last few drops of champagne, ignoring how her hand shook when she set down the empty bottle.

“Are you okay?” Wise of him to ask, but foolish of him to expect honesty from her at a time like this.

“Mm-hmm.” She guzzled down the fizzy liquid and instantly wanted a refill. “Mind if I grab another bottle?”

“I can get it⁠—”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” She was up and moving before he completed the offer.

Her guilt about ransacking his thousand-dollar collection of bubbly disappeared. He’d gotten every penny’s worth, and he was about to get a steep lesson in tipping.

She selected something that looked similar to the first bottle, not really caring about the taste and more concerned with the alcohol content. She didn’t need fancy. She needed a liquid sedative.

When she returned to the den, Soren was sitting on the couch, jeans back on with the button undone, the denim hanging low on his hips. He watched her like a housefly he planned to catch, and she moved just as elusively about the room.

“Find something good?”

“I think.” The cork popped with a startling shot, and she refilled her glass. Too aware of her nudity, she pulled the fur blanket off the floor and wrapped herself in it.

That was a mistake. The fibers smelled like sex and Soren. Every soft hair carried a mixture of his scent and hers, along with the lingering stench of her way too personal feelings.

She sat close to him but avoided actual contact.

Sipping from her glass, she took in the room, looking anywhere but at him. His life was so systematic, yet he’d invited a tornado into his den, and the winds subtly shifted as they sat in silence, the stillness before a storm.

Soren hated chaos. He liked order, liked to approach problems methodically, with clear-cut plans that obeyed the rules of logic. She looked for the logical explanation that got her here.

Olivia was probably a very logical person, with her starched collar and polished shoes. She could walk into this place and feel at home in five minutes.

Jocelyn took another sip of champagne as Soren continued to study her.

Had Olivia been here? Had she spent the night? No doubt other women had.