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Then I kiss her.

Hard—like I need to feel her under my skin. Deep—like I’m drowning in the taste of her. Dirty—like it’s not enough to just have her mouth, I want to mark her, claim her, leave her breathless and trembling. My hands fist into her hair as her lips part beneath mine, warm and willing. She groans into my mouth, and I take it, drink it down like it’s the only thing that can soothe the fire riding me raw.

Her body arches against mine, her hips grinding once, twice, seeking friction, seekingme.I press her harder into the wall, my thigh wedging between hers, lifting until she gasps. Her nails rake down my back, sharp, needy. I kiss her until we’re both shaking, until everything else falls away but the heat, the taste, the primal hunger that crackles between us like lightning begging to strike.

I want her—here, now, pressed between me and this wall until she's writhing from nothing but my touch. Her scent floods my lungs, sweet heat and defiance tangled into something that has my control unraveling one breath at a time. My hands twitch at my sides, craving the feel of her skin, the arch of her spine, the way her breath hitches when I get too close. But I hold the line. Barely. Because if I give in now, there won’t be any going back—and we’re already dancing on a knife’s edge.

It’s not soft or sweet. It’s a raw, blistering claim that brands us both in heat. She moans into my mouth, the sound trembling like a broken prayer, and fists her hands in my shirt as if holding on is the only thing keeping her grounded. My thigh slides between hers, the pressure a cruel tease, and her hips rock—once, sharp, and needy. The friction sets fire to my blood, a thunderous roar pounding through my veins as every nerve demands more.

She bites my lower lip.

I drag my mouth to her throat. “Tell me to stop.”

She doesn’t.

Her head tips back with a shuddering breath, neck arching in surrender, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat. It's not just an invitation—it's a demand wrapped in silk and fire. Her breath ghosts against my cheek, her skin flushed, radiating heat that sears into my palms. She presses closer, thighs tightening around my leg, and the hitch in her breath as I drag my lips down the column of her throat is pure fucking sin.

My hands slide under the hem of her tee shirt, and the first brush of her bare skin jolts through me like an electric current. She’s fire beneath my fingertips—silken heat and muscle that flexes under my touch. Her stomach trembles as I trace the edge of her ribs, each inch a silent invitation, her breath hitching in response. The soft curve of her waist molds to my palms, and I want to map every contour, brand her with the memory of my hands. Her skin is a temptation I didn’t know I was starving for—hot, smooth, and alive in a way that makes restraint feel like a goddamn war I’m losing by the second.

I want her. Fuck, I want her.

But just as I push my thigh harder into her, forcing her legs wider, just as her breath catches in a ragged gasp and her nails sink into my back with delicious desperation—heat explodes between us, wild and primal. Her hips buck, chasing pressure, her breath coming in soft, shuddering moans that feel like they were meant for my ears alone. I brace her tighter, feel her melt and tense all at once, her whole body trembling against mine like she’s caught on the edge of something too big to contain. The air between us turns molten, pulsing with the need to fall further, harder, deeper?—

Ping.

My head snaps toward the security panel as the blaring alarm erupts—sharp, piercing, and unmistakable. It's not just sound, it’s sensation: steel dragged across nerve endings, a primal ripthrough the haze of lust that still clings to my skin like smoke. The heat between us fractures in an instant, and my blood turns cold as the red strobe pulses beside the panel.

My muscles lock, instincts screaming as adrenaline punches through me like a live wire. She stiffens beneath me, her breath catching in a sharp, involuntary gasp, eyes widening in recognition of the sudden change from lust to lethal focus.

“Get upstairs,” I order, already moving.

“But—”

“Now.”

She moves.

I grab my weapon, her scent still clinging to my skin like wildfire and my heart thundering with the imprint of her body. The memory of her heat, the press of her hips against mine, charges through my veins like lightning. Jaw tight, blood simmering, I head for the door—every step powered by the primal promise that no one touches what's mine and walks away whole.

Whatever’s coming—whatever’s already on its way—I’ll meet it with every ounce of fury and precision I’ve got. Let them try to take her from me. I’ll make damn sure they regret ever drawing breath.

CHAPTER 10

SUTTON

Itake one step toward the stairs before instinct kicks in. The shriek of the alarm still rings in my ears. Deacon’s voice echoes like a loaded threat. And that buzz under my skin—hot, high-voltage, tangled in the memory of his mouth on mine—hasn’t faded. It’s not just adrenaline. It’s instinct—the kind that curls in my gut and whispers in my blood, telling me I won’t survive if I play small, if I hide. That flight isn’t an option—not when the fire is already at the door.

I’m not running.

I spin on my heel, heart hammering, and grab the Glock from the console table. My fingers close around the grip with a certainty that surprises even me—smooth, familiar weight anchoring me in the chaos. My bare feet hit the floor with purpose as I move toward the front of the house, the low hum of adrenaline curling tight through my veins. No more waiting. No more hiding. If something’s coming, I’ll meet it face-on.

Deacon’s already at the door, back rigid, weapon drawn, jaw locked. The tension in his frame is a live current, vibrating with fury barely held in check. He doesn’t glance my way, but I feel the heat of his wrath radiating off him, thick enough to taste—gunpowder and thunderclouds. Still, I move in beside him,Glock steady in my grip, pulse pounding in my throat like war drums. Because whatever’s waiting outside, I’d rather face it shoulder-to-shoulder than cower behind him.

His snarl is low, lethal. "I told you to go upstairs."

"And I chose not to."

He turns. Slowly. Like thunder stalking the edge of a storm—controlled, but seething, just shy of explosion. His eyes drag over me—barefoot, hair tangled, breath still shaky from the kiss we haven’t dared unpack—but his gaze lands on the Glock in my grip. A flicker of surprise, then calculation. Like he’s reassessing everything, including whether I’m safer beside him... or in the crossfire.