Page 75 of Knot Your Sugar

"Just like our first night?" His voice carries a hint of bitterness. "You want to use me and then pretend it never happened?"

"I—that's not what I meant," I stammer, though it's exactly what I meant. "Look, can we—"

"Elena, I don’t think—"

I don’t hear the rest. My hand is already fisting his expensive shirt, dragging him toward the thick cover of the woods. Thought is gone, impulse taking the wheel.

"Elena, wait," he says, even as he allows himself to be dragged. "This isn't—"

I silence him with a kiss that's hungry, unpolished. I press him against a tree, breath ragged, and rub my cheek against the arch of his neck, a desperate, instinctive marking.Mine. For now. Please.

The friction, his scent, his sheer… alpha-ness, it’s like a match to gasoline. He groans, a low, guttural sound, and his hands come up to grip my waist, his fingers digging in almost painfully. This is clearly turning him on. Good.

"Please," I breathe against his mouth. "I need this. I need you."

His resolve visibly crumbles. One moment he's holding back, the next his control snaps like a twig. His hands grip my waist, and his mouth claims mine with a hunger that matches my own.

"The bushes," I pant, spotting a dense thicket of rhododendrons that look private enough. "In there. Quick."

He lets me drag him a few more steps, then digs his heels in, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Elena, this is insane!"

"Please, Dorian," I plead, pressing myself against him, the heat between my legs now a frantic pulse. "Ineedthis. I needyou." My scent is probably screaming ‘take me’ in neon pheromones.

His nostrils flare, his eyes darkening with desire. "Your scent…My God…" he mutters, his voice thick. He’s losing it. And a wicked part of me thrills at the shift.

I lead him deeper, half stumbling into the shelter of the undergrowth. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, tugging at the fabric as I kiss along his throat, wild and breathless. He tastes of power, black coffee, and the promise of oblivion.

His arms crush me to him, and then his mouth is on mine again. The world outside the rustling rhododendron bushes ceases to exist.

Everything is messy. Urgent. Elemental. My body is screaming for release, and Dorian, bless his beautifully tailored, rapidly disheveling suit, is the only answer.

His hands are on my breasts, and my hips are pushing into the bulge in his pants. God he’s so hard. Slick is drooling down my thighs as I claw at his belt, freeing him. His pants hit the ground as I tug my own pants down, baring myself to him.

Dorian spins me around, my hands bracing against robust twigs as he presses his cock against me from behind. His hands grip my hips, and I arch back, desperate for him. He doesn’t make me wait. With a low growl, he pushes into me, fillingme in one deep, deliberate thrust. I moan, the stretch of him overwhelming and perfect.

Damn that hits the spot.

The way his body moves against mine, taking control with every thrust, pushing me higher… it feelstoogood. My fingers grip the brittle twigs beneath us, knees shaking as he finds a steady, relentless rhythm. His hands move over my breasts, teasing my nipples through the thin fabric of my chef's jacket.

“Fuck, Elena,” he groans, his voice rough, almost feral. Every thrust sends sparks through me, building to a crescendo. My body tightens, the pressure coiling until it snaps, and I come hard, a shuddering release that rips a cry from my throat. It’s exactly what I needed, the tension unraveling in waves, leaving me gasping, my body pulsing around him.

But I’m not done. I need all of him. “Dorian,” I pant, glancing back at him, his face taut with restraint. “Finish. Inside me.”

He hesitates, his thrusts slowing for a moment, and then he leans forward, his lips brushing my neck. “This is such a mistake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conflict and desire.

“I don’t care,” I gasp, pushing back against him, urging him on. “I need—”

I don't have to finish my sentence before I hear a branch snap, followed by a shocked gasp.

* * *

"What in the—" Judge Parker's voice cuts through my haze like ice water.

Time stalls.

Dorian and I scramble apart, breathless and tangled. My chef’s jacket is tousled to hell, and my pants are bunched awkwardly around the backs of my knees. His shirt hangs open, and he's pantless, his manhood exposed. We fumble to fix ourselves, hands shaking, faces flushed from the sex and being caught.

But it’s too late. The scene is unmistakable. Indefensible.

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