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“Do I?”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops lower. “Wetter.”

He lunges at me, and I meet him with elbows and nails. We fight together in a snarling tangle of legs and hands, stumbling through the wild grass until every sensible thought in my head disappears under the scrape of his body against mine.

Christ, I want him. Not a polite, deniable want either. I want him inside me, tonight, in the wet grass, and I want it so badly that my hands shake.

I claw at his jacket, ripping it down his arms. He shrugs out of it, and I attack his shirt next, buttons popping open. Once his chest is bare, I sink my nails into his skin and drag them across his pecs, leaving raised red lines behind.

Fionn hisses, but his cock nudges against my stomach.

Whatever this is, it turns him on.

And me doing it to him turns me on more.

He spins me, bands one powerful arm around my waist from behind, and wraps his other hand around my throat.

“I’ve got you now, little wild thing.”

His thumb presses under my jaw, fingers curled against my racing pulse, and the control he has over me makes my knees threaten something humiliating.

“You’ll never have me.”

I buck and twist, grinding my ass back against the thick, hard length of him. He bites down on the side of my neck, and I know it’ll mark, but I don’t care, especially when he drags his flattened tongue over the sting and my knees actually give.

This is the part that should horrify me. That being held down by a Harrington in the dark has my pussy clenching around nothing, and my mouth open on a moan I can’t stop. It’s wrong however I look at it. It doesn’t make me want it less. Rather, it makes me need it more.

“Still fighting?” he rasps against my ear, voice wrecked. “Or ready to surrender?”

“Never.”

I drive an elbow into his ribs. He grunts, spins me again, and crushes his mouth to mine.

The kiss is all teeth, tongue, and hunger. I bite his bottom lip until I taste copper, and he growls into my mouth, tightening his hand around my throat just enough to make my head spin.

We devour each other as if restraint was only ever something waiting to be punished out of us.

Next thing I know, he takes me down into the grass.

I land on my back with him between my thighs, the torn dress pushed up around my waist. I scratch his skin again, nails carving deep so he shudders and his hips roll against me, grinding his thick dick over soaked lace, catching my clit on every pass.

“Fuck,” he snarls. “You get off on hurting me.”

I bite his shoulder in answer and pray it leaves a mark on him.

He groans, then grips my panties and rips them clean off.

When his fingers find me wet, I whimper, and a deep rumble scrapes the back of his throat like it hurts him.

“Jesus, fuck, Sera…” he pants, nostrils flaring.

Two thick fingers shove into me, all the way, curling hard while his thumb grinds circles into my clit. I arch, nails raking his sides, heels digging into his ass.

I’m so wet I can hear it. So can he, and the bastard smiles about it.

Then he’s unbuckling his belt, shoving his trousers lower, and the blunt, hot head of his cock notches against my entrance, thicker than his fingers, thick enough that my body braces before it even starts.

I freeze for a heartbeat—hate, need, and shame crashing together.