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And then she does it again. Turns too slowly when I speak. Lets her fingers linger too long on my forearm. Holds my gaze just a second too long. Bites her lip. Breathes too deeply.

And finally, at breakfast, after she sets a fucking feast in front of me, I look up at her.

“What game are you playing?”

That smirk. That fucking smirk makes me want to grab her by the hair, yank her back, and punish her.

Slow and knowing, she leans in, her breath sweet and warm against my ear.

"What are you talking about, big guy?" Her voice is teasing, dangerous. "What if I told you I’m not playing at all?"

And then something in me snaps.

I grab her wrist and yank her onto my lap, her breath hitching just before I seal my mouth over hers. She meets me—teeth and tongue, hands in my hair, nails biting into my scalp like she wants me to feel it.

I do.

She gasps when I grip her hips and drag her against me, making sure she feels my erection pressing into her ass so she knows how badly I need her. My fingers dig into her thighs, my control hanging on by a thread.

"Go ahead, little ghost," I growl against her lips. "Keep lying to me. Keep telling me you’re not playing games. Like you’re not fucking biding your time until you can run again."

She grins, slow and wicked. "I thought you liked it when I ran," she whispers. "I thought you loved to chase me."

"You know I fucking do."

I wait for her to run. I want her to. I want to give her a head start, chase her down, pin her against the wall.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she moves—rocking against me, rolling her hips in a slow, devastating grind. My grip tightens, and she fucking moans, and that’s it. That’s the last snap of restraint I have.

I stand, lifting her with me, carrying her to my bed. Our bed.

I throw her down onto the mattress, tearing off her clothes and then mine. She looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry, lips swollen from kissing.

She dares me.

She tests me.

I crush my mouth to hers, dragging my teeth over her bottom lip before moving down, biting at the sensitive skin of her throat. She gasps, thighs squeezing around my waist.

I press my knee between her legs, forcing them open.

Claiming her.

My hands leave bruises. Marks she’ll feel tomorrow. And she likes it.

She fucking loves to hurt.

And I fucking love to hurt her.

My hands find her wrists, pinning her down, keeping her exactly where I want her. And still, she twists under me, but it’s just another one of her games. She wants me to overtake her.

She wants me to make her submit.

So I do.

I fucking do.