My jaw locks. My teeth grind together.
She doesn’t know the specific truth. She doesn’t know the exact details of the Gala tonight. But her survival instincts are flawless.
She knows she is the meat being traded.
The dramatic irony burns a hole through my brain. Ferraro is coming tonight. The monster is already on his way.
The urge to tell her everything roars in my ears. The raw instinct to grab her, to break through the front compound gates, to extract her from this corrupt city right now fights a brutal war against strict MC orders.
A protector cannot leave his charge in the dark. It is a fundamental failure.
I can’t feed her empty comfort. I won’t.
I drop the green block into the bin. I shift forward. I close the space between us.
I step into her airspace.
“You deserve safety.” My vocal cords vibrate with a lethal rumble. “You belong with a man who will burn the entire fucking world down just to keep you warm.”
The raw intensity startles her.
Her breathing turns ragged. Stress and arousal radiate from her heated skin. The rose scent turns impossibly thick.
Her right hand lifts. The soft pad of her thumb presses against her lower lip. A slow, calculated swipe traces the full, plush curve.
The clinical detachment I’ve maintained for twenty-four hours cracks clean through.
My hand shoots out. My fingers clamp around her delicate wrist. I pull her hand away from her mouth.
I yank her forward.
Pure surprise forces a gasp from her throat. I swallow the sound.
My mouth crashes down over hers.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is a desperate, consuming collision of teeth and raw heat.
From my knees, I lunge forward, my hands snaking around her waist to haul her flush against my tactical vest. I rise, taking her with me until I pin her back against the pastel yellow wall.
Mint and sleep coat her tongue. The taste is intoxicating.
I release her wrist. My hands map her body with possessive authority.
My palms slide up her ribcage. Both hands grip her face. My thumbs angle her jaw, forcing her mouth wider.
My tongue sweeps inside. I take everything.
She doesn’t fight it. Her entire body softens.
Her hands fly up. Her fingers dig into the Kevlar plating on my chest. She pulls the armor closer. Her back arches. Soft, heavy breasts press against the hard plates.
The friction is pure torture.
A low, feral groan rips from my throat. It belongs to a starving predator, not a surgeon.
I lift her by the ass, her silk robe falling away to reveal she’s wearing nothing but lace beneath it. I spread her thick thighs and hike her up until the heavy, rigid length of my cock is buried against her soaking pussy. The raw, localized scent of her arousal—sweet cream and roses—detonates in my head. I grind against her, my balls tight and aching to dump my seed inside her right here among the baby powder and clean laundry.
A soft whimper vibrates into my mouth. Her hips rock forward. She seeks the friction. She demands the contact.