Page 17

I hate that I’m asking him this like a little boy in trouble, but this man knows me better than anyone. He pauses.

Then, he replies, “You protect your position. Or you burn it down.”

I stare at the screen.

Lyra has wiped her face with her forearm, smearing paint across her cheek. She looks like a warrior and a poem all at once.

“I’m not backing off,” I say quietly.

“Then make peace with what’s coming,” Marcus replies. “Because if she opens the file all the way, you’re not just losing the job. You’re losing everything.”

I sit there, still as stone, watching Lyra smear another streak of black across the canvas like she’s marking a grave.

And I realize… the war’s already started. I’ve just been too busy watching her dance in the flames to realize I’m standing in the middle of the fire.

He hangs up. No goodbye, no warning. He’s already said enough.

The second the call ends, I’m already moving.

Rage coils in my chest like a lit fuse, burning hotter with every step. Marcus doesn’t call for nothing. If he says someone in the Bureau is sniffing around, I believe him. If he says it leads back here, to her …

She’s been holed up in that art studio for the last hour, music blaring, brush strokes erratic and wild like she’s trying to exorcise something through color.

I’ve been watching her on the cameras for at least an hour now, paint streaking her face and neck.

Her body moving with that same careless defiance that always makes me want to pin her against the nearest surface and remind her who she’s playing with.

I don’t knock.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

She doesn’t flinch. Lyra Vane doesn’t do fear anymore, it seems like. She looks up from the canvas with one eyebrow raised, the brush still in hand. The smell of turpentine and acrylics hits me first. Then the heat. And then her.

“Jesus, Creed. Heard of knocking?”

“What the fuck did you do?”

She sets the brush down with infuriating calm. “You’re going to have to be a lot more specific, Mr. Asshole.”

I stalk toward her, my boots echoing across the concrete floor.

Her studio is a mess, sheets of canvas in various states of ruin and bold colors bleeding like open wounds.

She’s wearing an old tank top. It’s loose and paint-stained.

No bra. Her legs are bare and speckled with crimson and blue, her shorts barely containing that ass of hers.

She looks like a painting come alive. Violent, rebellious, and feral.

And fuck me, I’m getting hard.

“You contacted someone in the FBI,” I snarl. “Don’t play stupid. An associate of mine got wind of it. You think this is a fucking game?”

Her eyes narrow, her lips curling into that goddamn smirk that makes me want to shake her and kiss her in the same breath.

“Oh, that,” she says sweetly. “Guess you’re not the only one with secrets.”

I move fast.

One hand slams the wall beside her while the other grabs her wrist and pins it high above her head. She gasps, but I can see that it’s not from fear. It’s from adrenaline and the electricity snapping between us for days now.

“If you know what I’ve done,” I growl, my voice low and dark, “then why the fuck are you still here?”

She stares up at me, her breath hitching. Her chest rises and falls fast, and I also notice there’s paint on her lips. Red paint. Like blood.

“Because if you get to know everything about me,” she whispers, “then I get to know everything about you. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

My grip becomes more rigid. She tilts her chin, daring me. Always daring.

I want to hate her. I want to scare her. But all I feel is heat and the dangerous thrill of being seen.

“You’re playing with fire, Vane.”

Her voice is a rasp when she replies, “Then burn me.”

And fuck me, I just might.

“You’re not scared?”

“No,” she answers.

“Maybe you should be.”

I squeeze her throat, though not hard. Her eyes go glassy from the tears blooming in them, but her gaze never wavers.

She stares at me like I’m a puzzle she plans to solve, even if it kills her. And I don’t let go.

“I think you’re just enjoying yourself,” Lyra bites her lower lip despite the pain my hold must be causing, and it earns a low growl from me, “considering the view.”

I still haven’t let go of her neck—her delicate, tempting neck that fits too perfectly in my hand. My grip must be starting to bruise now. I know it’ll leave a mark. I want it to. From the wicked glint in her eyes, I can tell she wants it too.

She’s watching me like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Her gaze is locked on mine, dark and electric.

Her fingers, light and teasing, begin to trace slow patterns across my chest, dragging over skin that’s already burning beneath her touch.

My chest rises and falls in jagged waves, more beast than man as I fight the urge to pin her down and wreck every inch of her.

Then she lifts her other hand, still holding the paintbrush.

She doesn’t break eye contact.

That brush touches my stomach, soft as breath, and starts to move downward. It moves slowly and carefully, like she’s painting possession one inch at a time. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows I’m going to snap if she keeps dragging that thing lower.

She smiles.

And keeps going.

Until she reaches my cock. I glance down at the contact on instinct and breathe through my nose, trying to contain myself. But my body’s betraying me because I’m hard like a rock. I’m so fucking turned on that I could bend her over and fuck her brains out right now.

Using the back of the fucking paintbrush, she traces along the length of my cock with deliberate slowness, like she’s committing every inch to memory. The brush is barely there, more tease than contact, but it sends a jolt through me that’s so sharp, I have to bite down on a groan.

And then she starts circling the tip.

She makes lazy, sensual loops with the paintbrush like she’s drawing invisible symbols designed to wreck me from the outside in.

I shut my eyes so tightly that I see stars behind them, flashes of white against the darkness, but I still don’t let go of her.

My hand tightens slightly around her neck to remind us both of who’s still in control. But I feel it slipping.

It feels so fucking good. Too good.

Every nerve in my body is tuned to her. The slow drag of that paintbrush, the warmth of her breath as she watches me unravel, and the soft, wicked hum in her throat that tells me she’s enjoying every second of this power play. And she hasn’t even touched me with her body yet.

“Oh, Mr. Creed, do you like this? Who knew you were a dirty little boy?” she purrs suddenly, breaking the lull between us. God, that soft voice of hers. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

I finally open my eyes and see her smiling at me.

I lean down and whisper in her ear, “You’re about to be a dirty little girl.”

Before she can react, I snatch the paintbrush from her hands and fling it across the room. It lands with a soft thud somewhere in the room, but I don’t spare it a thought because all of me is locked on her .

I grind into her soft body and groan. I’m so hard that I can no longer control my own actions.

With a quick, fluid motion, I lift her off the ground effortlessly. Her legs wrap around my waist instantly and instinctively, like she’s been waiting for this moment since the second we met. Her body molds against mine perfectly, hot, supple, and electric.

“Put me against the window,” she commands, her voice low and breathless, more demand than request.

I should tease her for that. I should pin her to the wall, make her wait, make her beg. But my patience is hanging by a thread, and her voice cuts through every ounce of discipline I’ve got left. I’m too horny to tease or protest.

Three strides. That’s all it takes.

I press her against the tall window, which is framed with narrow iron railings. I don’t care why they’re there because they work in my favor. She grips the bars above her head—her fingers clenching tightly—lifting her chest and baring her body in a way that nearly undoes me.

Her fingers tighten until her knuckles go white, and the stretch lifts her chest, arches her back, and completely bares her body to me like an offering.

Then she does something that shatters whatever restraint I had left. She loops both arms behind the railing, locking herself there with her spine bowed just right, her ass tilted up and back, presenting me with the most perfect view. My view. The angle to her pussy is obscene and irresistible.

I step in, positioning her exactly where I want her, where I need her, until she’s lined up perfectly with the aching length of my cock. My control’s razor-thin, but I’m not letting go of it. Not yet.

We’re both still dressed, and that’s how I want it. There’s something filthy, something deliciously forbidden about taking her like this, with the fabric in the way and her little shorts soaking through while I grind into her and make her come without ever stripping a thing.

This isn’t about slow. It’s about need. About ownership. About showing her exactly what she does to me.

And I plan on making sure the whole city can feel it.

But her top? That needs to go.

With her still wrapped around me, I shift my grip, balancing her effortlessly with one hand beneath her ass.

My other hand slips beneath the hem of her tank top and drags it upward in one swift motion.

The fabric bunches around her ribs, revealing smooth skin and a white lace bra that clings delicately to her chest.

It’s sweet in a way she absolutely isn’t, with soft lace, thin straps, and a tiny pink bow in the center that’s like a tease. Like a dare. A lie wrapped in innocence.

I don’t give her a warning, and I don’t bother asking.