Page 29 of Claimed By the Enemy

“What if I am?”

“Then I guess that makes me one too.”

The lace clings to her skin like a secret I wasn’t supposed to see. Her back is straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to make the next move.

And God, I want to. But I need to look first. I need to memorize this exact moment before it slips away.

I take her in slowly. The flushed skin on her chest. The way her thighs are parted just enough for me to fit between them. The silk of her bra barely conceals the peaks of her breasts, and her lips are parted, waiting, like she’s holding her breath and hoping I’ll be the one to break it.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. Words would ruin it. This moment is bigger than that.

I let one hand slide to her thigh. Just enough contact to ground me. My thumb makes a lazy circle there, dragging over the soft skin with maddening slowness. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t look away.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this,” I tell her, voice rougher than I intend. It sounds like gravel pressed between my teeth.

She lifts her foot, lets it skim the back of my leg, soft and teasing.

“Then stop thinking,” she whispers.

And that’s all I need.

I kiss her.

It’s the kind of kiss that starts somewhere low in my spine and burns upward until it hits the back of my throat. Her mouth parts under mine, and I sink into her like I’ve been starving and this is the only thing that’s ever going to feed me.

Her hand grips the edge of the table. Mine slides up her back, into her hair, and I feel how soft it is, how easily it slips through my fingers like black silk. My other hand stays at her thigh, and I swear I can feel her pulse fluttering just beneath the surface.

She tastes like champagne and defiance. Like trouble dressed in lace.

I pull back an inch, not because I want to stop, but because I have to see her face again. Her lips are swollen. Her chest is rising fast. She looks like temptation in human form, like something made in secret and left here just for me.

“Are you sure?” I ask. My voice is quiet, but it cuts through the air like a wire pulled taut.

She nods. Slow. Confident.

“Yes.”

Her fingers find the collar of my shirt. She pulls me back in without hesitation, and this time, there’s no more thinking.

There’s just heat.

And her.

And the moment we’re about to ruin together.

Her kiss tastes like surrender.

Not the timid kind — not the giving up of a fight — but the kind that roars in my chest like a challenge. Her hands are at my collar, tugging, needing me closer, and I let her. I lean in until there’s no space between us, until her chest presses against mine and I feel the steady thrum of her heart.

I shift, keeping one hand braced against the table, while the other runs up her side. My palm finds the curve of her waist, follows it to the dip at her back, and I pull her toward me. Her breath catches when I move my mouth to her neck, letting my lips trail along her pulse. She smells like heat and silk and the ghost of the champagne she drank hours ago.

“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her skin. Not mocking. Just reverent. Because I am, too.

“Only because you haven’t touched me properly yet.”

I slide a hand between her shoulder blades, down the line of her spine. The clasp of her bra is delicate, but my fingers are practiced. It comes undone with a flick, and I wait a beat—just to see her reaction.

Her eyes stay locked on mine as the lace loosens and falls away from her shoulders. She doesn’t cover herself.