Page 95 of The Sentinel

There was no restraint now. No hesitation. Just us.

The room disappeared. The world disappeared. There was only Marcus—his hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine.

It was desperate. Fierce. Possessive.

And I let him take me. Because I was his.

Because I had never belonged to anyone the way I belonged to Marcus Dane.

Marcus moved above me, inside me, like he was making sure I felt it—every inch of him, every hard, unyielding part of his body pressing into mine, surrounding me, owning me.

He didn’t hold back.

Didn’t ease into it.

He took me like he needed it, like he was still chasing the proof that I was here, alive, breathing beneath him. And I gave it to him.

Because I needed him just as badly.

I arched up, wrapping my legs around his waist, digging my fingers into his back, my nails leaving red lines against his skin. He growled into my neck, the sound vibrating through me, raw and hungry and possessive.

“You’re mine,” he rasped against my skin, his breath hot, his voice thick with wreckage and devotion.

“Yes.” My gasp broke into a moan as he slammed deeper, as he buried himself inside me like he was staking his claim in a way that no one—not Hart, not Department 77, not even the ghosts of our pasts—could take away.

He wanted me here.

With him.

Not just in this moment, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his body flush against mine, but always.

Forever.

And God, I wanted that, too.

His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as his teeth scraped my throat, his lips following, softer now, reverent.

His thrusts slowed, deepened, his hands smoothing over my hips, my thighs, like he was memorizing me. As if he already owned me, but still couldn’t quite believe I was here.

I pressed my palm to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart, the heat of his skin, the raw power coiled beneath the surface.

This man had torn through the city for me. Had put bullets in bodies, broken bones, spilled blood?—

And now he held me like I was something fragile. Something he couldn’t risk losing.

I lifted my lips to his ear, my breath uneven but certain. “Yours.”

A growl rumbled deep in his chest. Dark. Satisfied.

He caught my mouth in a brutal kiss, swallowing my cries, driving into me harder, faster, rougher. His hands slid under my thighs, lifting me to take him deeper, to let him pound into me exactly how I needed.

His control was unraveling.

I wanted it gone.

“Marcus,” I whispered, my lips brushing his jaw, my teeth scraping his skin. “More.”

Something snapped.

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