Page 105
“You should go,” he said, low, strained. “Before you say something you regret.”
I leaned in. Just enough to make him notice. To make him feel it. “And yet, you haven’t walked away.”
His jaw tensed, as he unpinned me from the desk. “I said go.”
But he didn’t move. So neither did I.
The space between us pulsed—charged with something unspoken, undeniable. A thread stretched too tight, seconds from snapping.
“Make me.”
His breath hitched. Barely. A small shift, but I saw it.
His eyes locked onto mine, those hazel pools reaching into the depths of my soul.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then—slowly, deliberately—he lifted a hand. Not to push me away. To brush a thumb along my jaw. He leaned in slightly, close enough that I could feel the whisper of his breath against my temple.
“Tell me darling.” The word was a blade wrapped in silk. “Do you even know what game you are playing?”
His touch was light. Tentative, almost. Like he was still fighting it. Like he knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t stop this now.
I stilled, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I’m not playing games.”
“Are you sure? You taunt me with your naked body. Push me out of my comfort zone every chance you get.”
His tone dropped, low and raw. “Do not feign innocence.” He leaned in, lips nearly brushing mine. “You are caught as firmly in my web as I in yours.”
A floorboard popped in the corridor; August’s arm tightened—half-protective, half-possessive.
For one suspended breath we both waited. Then the sound faded, and so did his restraint
His mouth crashed into mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Desperate and demanding and utterly without restraint. One hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, and the other gripped my waist hard enough to bruise. The force of it drove me back against the desk, and I heard something—a stack of papers, an inkwell—clatter to the floor.
I didn't care.
For a heartbeat, I was too stunned to respond. This wasn't the controlled hunter. This was raw need, barely leashed violence turned to hunger. Then his tongue swept past my lips. I tasted whiskey and cedar, and him and every coherent thought scattered.
I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.
My hands found his chest, his shoulders, fisting in the fabric of his shirt as I pulled him closer—closer—until there was no space left between us. He made a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and it sent heat pooling low in my belly.
His mouth left mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat. When his teeth grazed the sensitive skin where my neck met my shoulder, I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“August—”
He lifted me onto the desk in one fluid motion, scattering books and papers in every direction. The sharp crack of something hitting the floor barely registered. His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding up my ribs—and I wrapped my legs around him instinctively, drawing him flush against me.
The feel of him, hard and wanting, pressed against me made my head spin.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my throat, and the raw profanity from his lips sent a thrill through me. His fingers found the buttons of my blouse, fumbling with the first one.
I threaded my hands into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. His eyes met mine—wild, pupils blown wide—and for a moment we just stared at each other. Both breathing too hard. Both beyond reason.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was raw, stripped of all control.
I should have. Every rational part of me knew I should have.
