The kiss deepens immediately, suppressed want exploding between us with the force of a controlled demolition. No hesitation, no tenderness, just raw hunger finally given permission to consume. His tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming, demanding everything I've kept locked away.
My fingers claw at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. I pull him closer, closer, needing to eliminate every molecule of air between our bodies. The desk edge bites into my lower back but I arch into him anyway, greedy for contact.
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive you for what you did." The words tumble out between kisses, my hands roaming across the bare expanse of his chest. "The photographs, the stalking... very creepy, Jaxson."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and there's no apology in his expression. Only dark satisfaction and unrepentant hunger.
"Sweetheart, did I ask for your forgiveness?"
The arrogance in his voice ignites fury in my bloodstream. My hand shoots up, fingers tangling in his hair, and I yank his head back with enough force to make him hiss. His throat stretches taut before me, vulnerable, but instead of retreating he surges forward, one arm banding around my waist to crush me against him.
The hardness pressing into my stomach makes me moan before I can stop myself.
His smirk spreads slow and devastating across his face. "There she is."
Then he lifts me onto the desk.
The movement is effortless, almost violent in its efficiency. My legs wrap around him instinctively, ankles locking at the small of his back, drawing him into the space between my thighs where I can grind against him properly. My hips roll of their own accord, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache that's been building since I walked into this room.
"Can't help yourself, can you?" His hands slide beneath my tank top, palms scorching against my ribcage. "All that hatred, all that righteous anger, and you're grinding on me like a bitch in heat."
"Shut up." I grab his face and drag his mouth back to mine, swallowing whatever clever response he was forming.
His hands explore the skin he's only imagined touching, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, sliding around to cup my breasts through the thin cotton. No bra to slow him down. His thumbs find my nipples immediately, circling peaks that tighten under his attention.
My back bows off the desk. I press into his hands, shameless and desperate, my thighs squeezing tighter around his hips. The friction sends sparks cascading through my nervous system, each roll of my hips a plea for more.
"Look at you." His voice drops to a growl against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear. "Moaning like that while your boyfriend snores upstairs. What would Preston think if he saw you begging for your stepbrother's hands?"
The mention of Preston's name barely registers. My nails rake down Jaxson's bare back, leaving trails I hope will mark him for days.
Then my mouth finds his throat, tongue tracing the path where water droplets traveled earlier—the path I fantasized about following when I threw that glass at him. His skin tastes like salt and whiskey and forbidden things, and I drag my lips lower, licking along his collarbone, across his chest, chasing the ghost of moisture I put there.
A growl rumbles through him. "Knew you wanted to do that."
My palms flatten against his bare chest, nails dragging down the ridges of muscle I've studied in photographs. He's harder than I imagined, leaner, every line of his torso sculpted by whatever he did during those years in Italy besides stalking me from afar.
My fingers trail lower, tracing the cut of his hip bones, reaching for the waistband of his pajama pants. Before I can slip beneath the fabric, his hand shoots down and catches both my wrists. In one fluid motion, he pins them behind my back, arching my spine and thrusting my breasts toward him.
"Impatient." His grip tightens, holding me captive while his free hand settles on my hip. "And here I thought you hated me."
The dominance in his voice makes my inner walls clench around nothing. He grinds me against his erection with pressure that makes my vision blur.
"Every bastard I removed." His mouth traces a burning path from my shoulder to the swell of my breast. "Every relationship of yours I destroyed. I'd do it again. I'd do it a thousand times over to be exactly here, exactly now, with you dripping wet for me."
The confession should horrify me. Instead, my hand slides into his hair again, guiding his mouth lower, urging him toward the aching peak of my breast. When his lips close around my nipple through the thin cotton, I arch so violently I nearly knock us both off the desk.
"More." The word escapes as a command, not a request. "Give me more."
He complies with the enthusiasm of an animal finally unleashed from its cage. His teeth graze sensitive flesh while his hands shove my tank top higher, baring me to the cool air of the study and the heat of his gaze. His mouth moves to my other breast, tongue tracing patterns that make my thighs tremble.
I pull him up by his hair, needing his mouth on mine again, needing to taste him while my body threatens to combust. The kiss turns savage, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance neither of us is willing to surrender.
My teeth catch his lower lip. I bite down hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang flooding my tongue as punishment and passion mix into primal want.
He groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine where our bodies press together. His hips thrust forward reflexively, the friction against my core making me whimper despite myself.
"Bloodthirsty, aren't we?" He pulls back just enough to show me his bloodied lip, his grin feral and approving. "I always knew you had teeth."
I lean forward and trace my tongue along the wound I've created, cleaning the crimson evidence of my own violence from his skin. His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise, and the bite of pain only heightens the pleasure coiling tight in my belly.
His hand slides between us, fingers pressing against the damp cotton of my sleep shorts, and my entire body jerks toward the contact. I'm so wet the fabric clings to me, advertising exactly how thoroughly my body has betrayed every principle I thought I held.
Then—footsteps on the stairs.
We both freeze, his hand still pressed between my thighs, my legs still wrapped around his waist. The footsteps are heavy, deliberate, accompanied by the creak of the third step that I know by heart.
Preston. Coming to investigate why I haven't returned to bed.
Jaxson's free hand clamps over my mouth, muffling the heavy breathing I can't seem to control. My heart hammers so violently I feel it in my throat, my temples, the pulse point where his palm presses against my lips.
We stay pressed together in the darkness, his body shielding mine from the doorway, neither of us daring to breathe while footsteps pause just outside the study.
The door handle turns.