Page 8 of No Words
My instincts are screaming at me right now, but they’re not saying run. They’re saying something very different.
“And if my instincts tell me this is a mistake?” I challenge, not pulling away from his touch.
“Then they’re wrong.” Cole’s eyes darken. “Because right now, I’m the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave in the woods. The Borsellini’s have reach you can’t imagine. Money you can’t comprehend. And Alessio has a personal vendetta against anyone threatening his family’s empire.”
His words should terrify me. Instead, they ignite something involuntary in my core, a heat that spreads outward, making it hard to focus on anything but the man before me. The danger he represents. The protection he offers.
“Why should I believe you?” I whisper, though I already do.
“Because keeping you alive matters more than anything at the moment.” His voice dips to a rough murmur. “The FBI has protocols, but they won’t stop Alessio. Sometimes you have to adapt to survive.”
This isn’t just about protecting a witness. There’s something more personal driving him.
“Why?” I ask again. “I don’t understand.”
His eyes search mine for a long moment. “Because I’ve watched good people die when they trusted the wrong systems.” His voice roughens. “Because I refuse to add your name to that list. Not on my watch. Not when I can do something about it.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But his mouth is on mine, and there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s hunger and desperation and the raw need to feel alive when death hovers so close.
His body presses mine against the cabin wall, solid and unyielding. One hand cradles the back of my head while the other grips my hip with savage intensity. I should stop this. I should remember who I am, who he is, what’s at stake.
Instead, I find myself responding with equal fervor, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my body arching against his. His kiss is pure possession. It’s wrong. Dangerous.
And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
Cole breaks the kiss only long enough to murmur against my lips, “You’re mine to protect now.” His voice is a growl that sends heat south. “Say it.”
Something in me rebels at the command, at the possession implicit in his words. But in this moment, we’re just two people clinging to each other in the dark, with death snapping at our heels.
“I’m yours to protect,” I whisper, and he rewards me with another searing kiss.
His hands are everywhere, tangling in my hair, skimming down my sides, lifting me with shocking ease so that my legs wrap around his waist. The position brings his hardness directly against my core, and I gasp against his mouth at the contact.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my throat. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
But I can’t lie. Not here, not now, not with his body pressed so perfectly against mine. “Don’t stop.”
A darkness flickers in his eyes. In one smooth motion, he turns and carries me across the room, laying me on the vast leather couch. As he looms over me, his expression transforms into something primal and hungry.
His hands pin my wrists above my head, the pressure firm but not painful. The gesture is instinctive, controlling, a glimpse of something deeper in his nature.
“Last chance,” he says, his voice a rough growl, heat flooding between my thighs. “Once I start, I won’t be able to stop. And I won’t be gentle.”
“What does ‘not gentle’ mean to you?” I ask, surprised by my boldness. “I need to know what I’m agreeing to.”
His eyes soften slightly. “I won’t hurt you. But I will control you completely. Every touch, every breath, every sensation. You won’t make decisions. I will.”
The warning should scare me. Instead, it ignites a craving to be claimed, controlled, consumed.
In answer, I arch against his restraining grip, my body offering what my voice cannot articulate. “I’m okay with that.”
A sound rumbles from within him, half groan, half growl. Keeping my wrists pinned in his grip, his other hand roughly pushes my blouse up to expose my skin to the cool cabin air. The contrast between his burning touch and the chill makes me gasp.
“You want this? Use your words.” He demands, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hip hard enough to leave marks.
“I want this,” I breathe, surprised by the raw honesty in my voice.
Our bodies collide with desperate intensity, all restraint abandoned. His teeth and lips graze my neck, shoulder, breasts, not quite biting, but a promise of what might come later. I rake my nails down his back in response, drawing a hiss from his lips.
