Page 33 of Silent Schemes

He doesn't bother with them.

The fabric tears, expensive cotton giving way to expose skin he marks with teeth and tongue.

I should stop this.

Should remember why I'm here, what I'm supposed to do.

But when he lifts me fully against the window, when I wrap both legs around his waist and feel exactly how much he wants this, wants me, rational thought disappears.

The knife clatters to the floor.

I need both hands free—one to grip his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to scar, the other to pull his mouth back to mine.

The kiss is violent, all teeth and desperation, trying to consume each other.

"Tell me to stop," he says against my mouth, even as his hands grip me tighter.

"You first," I challenge back.

Neither of us stops.

We're both too far gone, caught in this spiral of violence and desire that can only end in destruction.

When he carries me away from the window, still kissing me like he's trying to steal my breath, my soul, my very existence, I know I'm lost.

Not to him.

To myself.

To this version of me that wants something beyond my duty, beyond survival.

When we finally break apart, both breathing like we've run miles, I see the damage we've done.

His back is shredded, blood seeping through the scratches my nails left.

My lip is split and swollen from his teeth.

There are bruises forming on my thighs from his grip, marks on my throat from his mouth.

We stare at each other, both trying to process what just happened.

This wasn't seduction.

This wasn't part of any plan.

This was pure, dangerous need.

"Round one," he says, touching his finger to my bleeding lip. "Draw."

The word hangs between us—draw.

Not victory for either side.

We're equally matched, equally dangerous, equally compromised.

I slide down from his grip, feet finding the floor on unsteady legs.

The shirt I'm wearing is ruined, hanging open, and I don't bother to close it.