Page 63 of Captive Prize

For the first time since I’d met this woman, she was perfectly still. She wasn’t plotting or calculating. She wasn’t fighting me or anyone else.

Zoya had given in to the moment of peace.

At least she did while I was washing her hair. When my hand moved from her scalp down to her body, running the soap over her skin, skimming the curve of her back to the dip of her waist, her breathing changed again.

Faster. Shallower.

I watched her every reaction, cataloged every tiny movement.

Every time her breath hitched, making her breasts quiver. Every time her skin tightened under my touch. Every single flutter of her eyelashes or parting of her lips, I watched, fascinated.

Her hands clenched at her sides, opening and closing, needing to do something to find a way to respond.

There was a storm brewing inside of her, just beneath the surface, but she wasn’t letting it break.

I wanted it to break.

My hands caressed her body again, my thumbs flicking over her tightened little buds, but she said nothing. She did nothing.

I left my hands at her waist for a moment, lingering there, waiting for her to push me away, to tell me to stop. Instead, she leaned more fully into me. The connection where her back pressed against my chest felt alive. Like every single place we touched had new nerve endings that just became active.

I didn’t realize I was touch-starved until I had her in my arms.

Then she moved, not breaking contact, but turning in my arms so she could look up at me.

It was a fucking mistake.

Our bodies aligned too perfectly.

Her chest pressed against mine. Our breaths mingled in the steam.

Her chin lifted. Her beautiful green eyes still blazing.

If she was smart, Zoya would push me away. She should tell me to never touch her again and then storm out of the shower.

She didn’t.

She surged forward, lifting onto her tiptoes and crashed her mouth to mine, the kiss violent, desperate.

I wrapped my arms around her tighter, spinning us around so I could press her into the shower wall.

My hands tight around her waist, her hands fisted my hair, holding me where she wanted me.

This wasn’t a kiss.

It was a battle. She was staking a claim, making a demand.

She had started a treacherous game, and when her teeth sank into my bottom lip, I lost that game.

My control, my restraint—all of it shattered.

I pressed my body into hers, my fingers bruising at her waist, her nails digging into my skin as she held me against her.

She bit me harder, drawing blood as she devoured me. So fucking emblematic of our fucked-up relationship.

Blood for blood.

I groaned into her mouth, pressing her harder against the wall, caging her in.

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