Page 39 of Cinderella and the Daddy

"You're not wrong," I breathe.

"Prove it."

Before I can ask how, his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is almost violent in its intensity. His teeth scrape against my lower lip. I taste copper. His or mine?

I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my anger and hurt and desperate need into the connection. When he releases my wrists, I immediately fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Fuck," he groans against my mouth, his hands sliding down to grip my hips.

His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, skimming over my breasts, gripping my ass like he owns it.

Maybe he does.

He lifts me easily, setting me on the hood of the Mustang. I’m wearing a pair of leggings and a sports bra. I had every intention of using the gym to work out some of my frustration, but this works.

This is definitely a stress reliever.

"This doesn't change anything," he growls, but his actions contradict his words as he pulls my bra over my head.

"I know," I gasp as his mouth finds my throat.

He works his way down my body with teeth and tongue, marking me, claiming me. When he reaches my breasts, I arch into his touch, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

I reach for his shirt. I want it off. I want to see the body he keeps hidden.

He doesn’t stop me as I pull it up. He reaches behind him with one hand and jerks it up and over his head.

Finally.

Finally, I get to see the defined pieces.

There are two letters above his heart—LM.

Leo. Leo Markovic.

There are Russian letters that trail down the left side of his ribcage.

I don’t get to study his body long. His mouth is back on mine.

His body pushes against mine. His hard cock pushing against me through his jeans. My leggings are no real barrier. My panties are wet. My body craves his.

He strips me efficiently, his eyes dark with hunger as he takes in my naked body spread across his precious car.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, running his hands up my thighs.

I reach for his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buckle in my haste. He helps me, shoving his pants down just far enough to free himself. Then he's positioning himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine.

"Tell me you want this," he demands.

"I want this," I breathe. "I want you."

He pushes into me slowly, filling me completely. The stretch is intense. Overwhelming. I cry out at the sensation. He stills, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed against mine.

"Move," I whisper.

The car rocks slightly beneath us with each movement. I don't care if we damage the paint job. Nothing matters except this. The way he feels inside me feels so good. His eyes never leave mine.

And then suddenly, he pulls out of me completely. The loss of him leaves me empty and aching, scrambling for equilibrium.