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He lowers his head to the crook of my neck, his whiskey-infused breath tickling my skin. It’s intoxicating.

His arm clamps around me, unyielding. It’s firmer than the unwelcome grip from the asshole downstairs. It’s more possessive. Almost more aggressive.

And yet… it feels a thousand times safer. Familiar. Essential.

I definitely need to find a therapist.

Right or wrong, I don’t think I can ignore this weird, confusing desire.

This unexpected challenge to my value system. This unlimited feeling of not giving a shit and claiming what I want.

And based on the hard outline of his length against my ass, what he wants.

He kneads my breast with one hand and shoves the other inside the slit of my dress. The intrusion is rougher, more urgent than the feather-like exploration in the bar earlier.

He cups my bare pussy, and I whimper. It’s like he knows, he feels, he somehow senses I don’t want gentle and caring at the moment.

I’ve just kicked a guy; I want to be fucking equal for once.

“Where are your panties, The Morrigan?”

His voice skims my skin, erupting goose bumps in its wake. I hold my purse up, and he snatches it. With his arms still around me, he opens the clasp and pulls out my underwear.

He drops the purse to the floor and brings the fabric to his nose. His head dips beside mine as he holds my body against his. He inhales and hums with indulgence.

Oh my God.

My mind shuts down, and my body takes over. My core throbbing, I try to turn. To face him? To kiss him? To look into his eyes?

But to my dismay, he steps away. It’s so sudden, I have to find a purchase with my arm against the wall.

My entire being mourns his loss immediately, despite the energy shifting somehow. And for once, I don’t have words to spit, threats to render, challenges to extend. It’s like I’ve exhausted all the fight in me.

Like this man won, because let’s face it, I’ve never had a chance. I fought long and hard, but this man owned me before I gave any conscious consent. Before I probably allowed myself near him.

He puts my panties into his pocket and saunters to the loveseat by the window.

I blink, disoriented. What the fuck?

The room looks like a luxurious hotel room with a large four-poster bed against the wall. In the opposite corner is a sex chaise and two love seats, where Corm sits now, and a glass coffee table.

His legs spread, his eyes hooded, he drapes his arm over the backrest and studies me. He shed the mask, and I reach for the sash on mine.

“Keep it,” he orders.

Fuck, he is hot. And infuriating. And gorgeous. He has the whole big-dick energy down, and as I had a chance to find out—which was the beginning of my fall—substantiated.

“What?” I choke out, not sure why there is a lump in my throat.

It’s like the heat plummeted completely, and I’m now trapped in some game, but I’m not sure what the rules are. Something has shifted, and I’m the prey here.

As usual.

Fuck him. I turn to reach for the doorknob.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“What do you want? Why are we here?” I snap.