Page 23 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
And now everything has changed.
14
JENNIFER
Iwake in silk sheets.
The scent of bergamot and old stone fills the air. The bed beneath me is vast, a continent of Egyptian cotton and down. My wrists ache, a dull throb beneath the skin, but they’re clean. Bandaged. The room is all dark wood and low light, a fireplace crackling silently behind glass. No windows. Just one heavy door.
He’s sitting in a leather armchair across the room, a crystal glass of something amber in his hand. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable, those dark eyes catching the firelight.
“You’re safe,” he says. His voice is quiet, a low hum that vibrates in the space between us.
“Safe.” I push myself up, the silk whispering against my skin. I’m wearing a man’s shirt, soft and expensive. His. “You define that differently than I do. Where are my clothes?”
“Ruined. Bloodstained. They’ve been disposed of.”
“You disposed of a prosecutor’s evidence. Add it to the list of charges.” My head is pounding, a steady drumbeat behind my eyes. “Where am I?”
“Somewhere you can’t be found.”
“By them? Or by my office?” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the floor cold under my bare feet. “You killed five men.”
“Six,” he corrects, taking a slow sip. “The driver was waiting outside.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m the monster who carried you out.” He sets the glass down. “They were going to peel you apart to get to me. They were going to enjoy it.”
“And you didn’t? Enjoy it?” I take a step toward him, my body thrumming with a anger so hot it feels like clarity. “I saw you. Your eyes. Your hands.”
He stands, fluid and effortless, a predator uncoiling. “You saw what was necessary.”
“I saw the truth. The thing you hide behind the suits and the charities and the goddamn boardrooms.” I’m in front of him now, close enough to see the gold flicker deep in his pupils. “You’re not a businessman. You’re a beast.”
“And you,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth, “are a liability I should have left in that warehouse.”
The words are a slap. A challenge. The last thread of my control snaps.
I grab the front of his tailored shirt, my fists twisting in the fine fabric, and I kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s anger and adrenaline and the raw, screaming truth of what I saw him do. It’s teeth and desperation, a battle for dominance I know I can’t win. I expect him to push me away, to laugh, to put me back in my place.
He doesn’t resist.
His hands come up to frame my face, not to hold me still, but to pull me closer. His mouth opens under mine, and he kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own, a silent concession that this, too, is a kind of violence. The taste of him is whiskey and winter and something ancient, something wild. I can feelthe impossible strength in his hands, the careful control he’s exerting to keep from crushing me.
His control shatters. A low growl rumbles in his chest as his hands slip from my face, down my back, gripping my hips to pull me flush against him. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his trousers, a stark contrast to the soft cotton of his shirt I’m wearing.
He tears the shirt open, buttons scattering across the stone floor like hailstones. His mouth leaves mine to travel down my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone before his tongue soothes the spot. His hands are everywhere, cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard peaks.
“I need to be inside you.” The words are rough, stripped bare of all pretense.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me back to the bed. He lays me down amidst the ruined silk, his weight settling over me, a delicious pressure. He fumbles with his belt, his usual grace gone, replaced by a raw, urgent need. He pushes his trousers and briefs down just enough to free himself.
His cock is thick and hard in his hand. He guides himself to my entrance, the head pressing against me. He pauses, his head resting against mine, his breath hot on my lips.
“Jennifer.”
