Page 63 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Is fine.” His smile is dangerous, predatory. “And even if it wasn’t, I’ve been shot before. Trust me when I say it’s not enough to stop me from wanting you.”
“Mauricio—”
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His good hand slides to my hip, thumb pressing against bare skin where my shirt has ridden up. “Tell me you’re not feeling the same desperate need I am after watching each other nearly die.”
I can’t. Can’t tell him that, can’t pretend the adrenaline and fear haven’t transformed into something else—raw need that’s been building since he put himself between me and bullets, since he looked at me like losing me would destroy him.
“We should wait until you’re healed,” I try weakly.
“Fuck waiting.” He pulls me onto his lap—careful of the injured shoulder but determined. “I want you now. Need to feel you alive and real and mine.”
“You’re impossible.” But I’m already settling against him, feeling exactly how much he needs this contact.
“And you’re wearing too many clothes.” His good hand is already working at my shirt buttons. “Remedy that.”
I shouldn’t. He’s injured, exhausted, lost blood. We should rest, regroup, focus on the actual mission instead of this desperate chemistry between us.
But when his mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear, when his hand slides beneath my shirt to map heated skin, all those logical protests evaporate.
I help him remove my shirt, careful not to jar his wounded shoulder. His eyes darken as he takes in my bare skin, and the heat in his gaze makes me feel powerful in ways I’ve never experienced.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, good hand tracing from my collarbone down. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Regina.”
I silence any further compliments with another kiss—deeper this time, no hesitation or careful exploration. Just desperate claiming, two people who survived hell and need to feel something other than fear.
His hand finds my breast, thumb circling my nipple until I gasp against his mouth. The other arm—injured but apparently not that injured—wraps around my waist, holding me steady as I rock against him.
“Need you,” I breathe against his neck, fingers working at his belt. “Mauricio, please—”
“Take what you need,” he growls, but he’s already helping, lifting his hips as I pull down his pants, and then mine. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
His cock springs free—hard, ready, already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, stroking from base to tip, watching his face as his control starts to unravel.
“Regina—” My name on his lips is raw, desperate. “Stop teasing.”
“Who’s teasing?” I shift forward, positioning myself over him. “I’m just appreciating the view.”
His response is to grab my hips with enough force to leave marks tomorrow, pulling me down onto his cock in one smooth motion that makes us both gasp. I stretch around him, taking every inch, the slight burn quickly overwhelmed by rightness of being filled this way.
“You feel—Christ—” His voice breaks as I start to move, slow, deliberate circles that make my own vision blur.
This time isn’t about exploration or gentle worship. It’s not even about pleasure, though that’s building with each movement. This is about connection. About anchoring each other after nearly dying. About proving we survived.
I ride him with increasing desperation, my hands braced on his shoulders—careful of the wound, needing the contact anyway. His good hand finds my clit, thumb circling with the kind of focused pressure that makes my thighs tremble.
“Mauricio—” I’m close, so close, pleasure coiling low and tight.
“Look at me.” His command is rough, demanding. “I want to see you when you come.”
Our eyes lock as I shatter—pleasure crashing through me in waves that steal my breath, my body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. His expression transforms—raw awe and possessiveness and something that looks terrifyingly like love.
Then he follows me over with a hoarse cry, his release flooding me, sealing this connection, making permanent what we’ve started.
I collapse against his good side, both of us breathing hard, sweat-slick and thoroughly exhausted. His heartbeat thunders against my ear, a rhythm more reassuring than any words.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against my hair. There’s a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
“I’m not the one who got shot playing hero,” I counter, fingers tracing the edge of his bandage gently. “Though I’ll admit, watching you handle those guards was... compelling.”
