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Part of me wants to resist, to make him push me harder, but I need to come—or I fear I’ll have to force myself free from this body. That’s how carnal he makes me.

“You,” I gasp. “I belong to you.”

His smile is predatory. “Say my name.”

“Marco,” I whisper.

“Louder.”

“Marco!” I cry out as he suddenly increases his pace again, driving into me with renewed force.

“Now you can come,” he permits, his thumb pressing harder against my clit.

The orgasm crashes over me with shocking intensity. I throw my head back, my inner muscles clenching around him as waves of pleasure pulse through my body. Through the haze, I feel him stiffen beneath me, his release following mine as he groans my name against my throat.

We stay like that for several minutes, my body draped over his, both of us breathing heavily. His hands, which had been so demanding, now stroke my back almost tenderly. He strokes my hair. “You okay?”

I nod against his chest. “Better than okay.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me for a beat too long, like there’s something else he wants to ask but can’t.

His jaw tightens, then he looks away.

He should feel triumphant after everything he just made me do. But something about the way he pulls back… makes it feel like a loss.

The contradiction confuses me almost as much as my own response to him.

I don’t know what I expected to feel—shame, maybe. Regret.

But all I feel is the echo of his hands on my skin and how my heart still races like he never let me go.

I should be scared. Maybe I still am. But it’s not fear that makes my knees weak now.

It’s something worse.

It’s the need to go to him if he calls.

14

MARCO

“Put on your clothes,” I say softly, handing her the clothes as I buckle up my pants. She nods, still lying on the sofa, and only when she moves to get dressed do I turn around.

We’re, after all, still in the living room, and I don’t want anyone to even accidentally see her the way I just have—naked, panting, flushed, wrecked. A vision to behold. Given how I can’t control myself around her, I fear no man can, even if there’s death dangled in front of him as a consequence.

Once she’s dressed, I leave her to the rest of her evening and quietly close the door behind me, giving her the privacy she may want.

My pulse still hammers against my temples; my blood still runs hot for her. The taste of Aria lingers on my lips, a reminder of the control I lost moments ago. I flex my fingers, steadying them when everything inside me trembles with the aftershocks of want. Walking away from her costs me more than I care to admit.

Each step toward my office puts the distance I need between me and the wreckage I’ve left behind. Aria—beautiful Aria—witheyes glassy from unshed tears of pleasure and lips swollen from my relentless kisses. I’ve torn down her defenses, stripped away her defiance, until only raw vulnerability remains. The image should satisfy me, but instead, it leaves me hollow.

I find myself questioning if I went too far. I find myself caring.

“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair, feeling the strands stick to my damp forehead.

I meant to stay in control. I pride myself on my discipline. But something about that blonde hellion dismantles my composure with frightening ease. Even now, knowing the position she’s put herself and me in with her lies, I still want her with an intensity that borders on madness.

I need quiet, distance, and the familiar comfort of business problems that can be solved without this uncomfortable heat in my chest. The heat isn’t just desire. It’s something worse—something that feels dangerously like longing.