Page 62 of Desperate Crimes
Possessiveness claws at my chest like a beast with its teeth sunk deep.
She looks too good like this—flushed from sleep, marked from the night before.
I know she’s sore.
I was rough. Maybe I even meant to be.
But I also meant every touch.
Because she’s mine.
And now?
She’s not going anywhere.
She stirs in my arms, lashes fluttering as she wakes.
I feel it before I see it—that flicker of uncertainty in her body.
The soft tension of doubt creeping in as reality settles over her like a second skin.
Not happening.
I slide my hand up her bare thigh, cupping her hip, pulling her closer as her eyes open slowly.
“Morning, Princess,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep and want.
She looks up at me, dazed. Vulnerable. Unsure.
That won’t do.
I slide my hand around the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as I guide her gaze to mine.
“Good morning,” I repeat.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“What’s that look about?”
“I, uh, didn’t know if you’d be here this morning,” she says.
“Of course, I’m here. And I’ll be here every morning from now on.”
“What are you saying?”
“You’re mine,” I say, voice low and final. “Don’t you dare start doubting it now.”
Before she can respond—before she can ask or pull away or even think—I pull her to me and kiss her.
Hungrily.
No pretense. No hesitation.
My tongue slides against hers, demanding, devouring, owning.
Her lips part with a moan I swallow—need rising fast and hot between us again like it never went to sleep at all.
I’m already hard.
