Page 36 of Chain Me

He doesn’t speak. Just watches me, his dark eyes reflecting the overhead light as he takes another slow sip of whiskey. The liquor doesn’t seem to dull his alertness—if anything, it intensifies the predatory focus he trains on me.

“If you’re not going to talk, I’m going back to bed,” I say, but make no move to leave.

His throat works as he swallows. “I tried to stay away tonight.”

The confession hangs in the air. I can see the war behind his eyes—duty versus desire.

“And yet here we are,” I whisper.

Erik’s knuckles whiten around his glass. “I shouldn’t want this.” There’s self-loathing in his voice. “Shouldn’t want you.”

I recognize the pull between us—this magnetic force dragging us together despite every reason to resist. The same force keeps me here instead of plotting my escape.

He takes another drink, longer this time, like he’s trying to drown whatever churns inside him. When he sets the glass down, a drop of amber liquid clings to his bottom lip. I watch, transfixed, as his tongue darts out to catch it.

“Tell me to leave you alone,” he says suddenly, the words raw. “Tell me to stop coming to your room, to stop touching you.”

But I can’t form the words. Because despite everything—despite the captivity, despite our families, despite knowing better—I don’t want him to stop.

“You can’t say it either,” he murmurs, understanding dawning in his eyes. “We’re both prisoners now.”

The truth of it settles between us. Erik’s gaze never wavers from mine, drinking me in like I’m more intoxicating than the whiskey in his hand.

“Come here.” Erik’s voice cuts through the silence, no longer a request but a command.

My body responds before my mind can protest. I slide off the stool, and the floor cools the bottoms of my bare feet as I round the kitchen island. Each step toward him feels like moving through deep water—deliberate, weighted with consequence.

His eyes track my approach hungrily. The whiskey has loosened something in him. This Erik is all raw edges and exposed nerves.

I stop just out of reach, holding onto some last illusion of choice. “Erik, I?—”

His hand shoots out, fingers circling my wrist with bruising intensity. One sharp tug is all it takes to break my fragile resistance.

The world spins as he yanks me into his lap, my knees falling to either side of his hips on the stool. My silk robe parts, exposing the bare skin of my thighs where they press against his.

“Enough talking,” he growls, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grips my hip, anchoring me against him.

His mouth crashes into mine with brutal force, nothing gentle in the way he claims me. He tastes of whiskey and desperation, of anger and need. My gasp is swallowed by his kiss, giving him access to deepen it.

I should push away. I should remember who he is, who I am. Instead, my hands find his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle as I arch against him.

His grip tightens in my hair, angling my head exactly how he wants it. I’m helpless to resist the heat unfurling in my belly, the shameful rush of wetness between my thighs.

When he breaks the kiss, we’re both gasping for air. His forehead presses against mine, our shared breath hot and ragged. The hand at my hip slides lower, finding the bare skin where my robe has ridden up.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, echoing his earlier challenge, even as his fingers trace dangerous patterns on my skin.

But I’m melting against him like I was made to fit in his lap.

The tension between us snaps. Erik’s fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, and with one brutal tug, the delicate fabric tears away. The sound of ripping lace echoes in the kitchen, followed by the metallic clink of his belt buckle.

“I need you,” he growls, his voice rough with desire as he unfastens his pants. “Now.”

My body responds instantly to his demand, a rush of heat flooding between my thighs. But when I expect him to take control—to position me how he wants, to dictate our pace as he always does—he surprises me.

His hands settle on my hips, but they’re not dominant. They’re waiting.

“Show me,” he whispers, his dark eyes locked on mine. “Show me how you want it.”

---