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He hesitates, just a second, but it’s enough. Instead of the lie, he gives me the raw one.
“You asked me once why I burned my life away for you,” he says, voice ragged and raw. “The truth is, I would burn the whole fucking world twice over for you, Dee.”
I lose my grip for a second, a flicker of vulnerability. I don’t care. The desire to believe him is a physical ache.
I kiss him, hard, lips crushing against his. His mouth is open, desperate, his tongue a shock of heat against mine. I let go of his wrists and fist my hands in his hair, dragging him up to meet me. The kiss is a riot—biting, hungry, violent in its honesty. He tastes like salt, fear, and a fierce, burning devotion. I want to crawl inside his ribcage and live there.
He breaks the kiss first, panting, his forehead pressed to mine. “Still doesn’t answer your question though,” he mutters.
I laugh, low and mean. “Try harder.”
He does.
With a brutal, surgical twist, he flips us, rolling my body beneath his, pinning me with the weight of his hips and the press of his hands at my wrists. His strength is unreal—unyielding, final. I go still, let him settle on top, feel the heat of him pulse through every inch of me.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, breath hot against the skin. “Don’t think you have control here, Dee…”
I smirk, bite my lip, and then drive my knee up, catching him off balance. He grunts, just enough to loosen his grip, and I slide out from under him, rolling to the side. I stand, slow and deliberate, and tug the dress up and over my head, letting it fall in a puddle at my feet.
“Who has control now?” I taunt, voice steady.
He watches, eyes gone almost black. The look on his face is starving, predatory, but there’s awe in it, too. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe any of this is real. “Don’t test me,” he says.
“Or what?” I challenge.
He doesn’t answer. He just moves.
He’s on me before I can blink, hands at my waist, backing me up until I hit the table. The edge digs into my hips, grounding me. He lifts me onto it, hands strong and sure, and steps back to look. The light cuts across my ribs, painting me in silver and shadow.
His eyes, usually guarded and sharp, are dilated and utterly reverent. His gaze isn’t just lustful; it’s consuming and surgical, raking over the scarred terrain of my body—the faint bruises on my ribs, the tension in my shoulders from the fight, the fresh blood still dark on my knuckles. He sees the scientist, the fighter, and the woman, all at once.
“Fuck the Authority. I think it’s you who’s brainwashing me, Dee,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, as if the realization is a profound shock.
He takes a deliberate step closer, placing his hands on the table on either side of my hips, trapping me in the geometry of his body. He leans in, his expression a mixture of awe and fierce possession.
“You are perfection,” he says, his voice rough as sandpaper, each word a vow. “Stunning. Fearless. You are the thing they tried to break, and you are mine.”
His words land not as compliments, but as validation of my survival. In that moment, I realize he sees the rage that fuels me, the damaged parts of my past, and he doesn’t flinch. He accepts the totality of me. My breath hitches, and a thrill runs through me that is deeper than any physical arousal. He doesn’t just desire me; he worships the chaos I contain.
He steps in, mouth grazing my throat, the scrape of stubble raising goosebumps down my spine. He bites, soft at first, then hard enough to leave a mark. My head tips back, eyes closed, but I keep my hands on his shoulders, steadying myself.
He works his way down, tongue tracing a line from the hollow of my throat to the curve of my breast. He pauses there, just long enough to breathe me in, and then he drops to his knees.
I want to make a joke—something about the Authority never teaching this part of the manual—but the sound catches in my throat. All my control is gone.
He hooks my legs, pulls them over his shoulders, and settles me at the edge of the table. His hands are everywhere, gripping my thighs, tracing the inside curve, spreading me open. The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, wet, relentless. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He devours me, slow at first, then harder, the rhythm as precise as a metronome.
The room goes out of focus. All I can see is the blur of his hair between my legs, the flex of muscle in his forearms as he holds me. The sounds he makes are obscene—a wet, rhythmic suction, punctuated by the low growl in his throat when I start to tremble. I am stripped bare, physically and mentally, and his total focus is the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever felt.
Kang mumbles against my corse with a deep growl “fuck dee. You tastes delicious.”
I try to stay quiet, but I can’t. The moan that escapes is loud, desperate. He doesn’t stop. If anything, it spurs him on, driving him deeper into the frenzy.
My vision whites out. The pressure builds, a sharp point of heat that explodes outward like a solar flare, taking the rest of me with it. I grip his head so tight I worry I’ll break him, but he doesn’t flinch. I hear the pounding of my own blood in my ears as the waves crash over me.
When it’s over, I’m left gasping, legs limp, arms heavy. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands, and looks at me with a hunger that’s almost painful.
He pulls me off the table, lifts me with zero effort, and carries me to the bed. The blanket is rough against my skin, but I don’t care. I want him on me, in me, around me.
