The night I stopped pretending I didn't want him.
I didn't knock this time.
I kicked the door open, gun strapped to my thigh, breath ragged, and skin hot with something I couldn't name without choking on it.
Rafael was at the window, bare-chested, sweat gleaming on his torso, veins thick on his forearms. The black linen pants hung low on his hips, just loose enough to tempt—just tight enough to tease.
He turned slowly, like he'd been expecting this. Like he knew I'd come.
I hated him for that. And I wanted him more because of it.
"I'm done," I said. "With your silence. With this game."
He didn't move. "You sure you're ready for what happens when the game ends?"
"I don't want careful," I snarled. "I want you. All of you. Now."
Something dark snapped behind his eyes.
The silence between us cracked like ice underfoot—then he was on me. Not like a man claiming a prize.
Like a man claiming a right.
His mouth crushed mine, hands fisting in my hair, dragging me back into the door as it slammed shut behind us. Tongues collided, breaths gasped between clenched teeth, and the kiss turned savage—raw, untamed, feral.
I moaned into his mouth, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He growled—a real, primal sound—and spun me around, pressing my chest against the cold wood of the door. His hands dragged up my thighs, beneath the thin hem of my dress, fingertips tracing the straps of my thigh holster before yanking it off with a satisfying rip.
"You wear your weapons like a second skin," he rasped in my ear. "But you're the most dangerous thing in this room."
"Then don't waste time," I hissed. "Let me ruin you."
He grabbed my wrists, twisting them behind my back, pinning me with his body. One hand unzipped the back of my dress, dragging the fabric down slow enough to make me ache. I wasn't wearing a bra. I didn't need one for this.
The air kissed my skin as the dress fell, and I heard his breath hitch behind me.
He dropped to his knees.
And then his mouth was on my spine, trailing fire from the curve of my lower back up to my shoulder blade.
"Say it," he whispered against my skin.
"Say what?"
"That you want this."
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes.
Storm-grey. Darkened with hunger. Controlled… but barely.
"I want you," I whispered. "I want you to break me open and see what's inside."
He rose, spun me around, and in one brutal, fluid motion, lifted me off the ground and slammed me onto the bed. His hands were everywhere—rough and reverent, greedy and focused. He stripped me down with maddening slowness, like every inch of skin revealed was something sacred.
When he knelt between my legs, his voice dropped to a whisper.
"Keep your eyes on me."
And then he devoured me.
His tongue worked like he'd studied me, mapped me, owned me. I cried out, back arching, thighs trembling around his head as he gripped them hard enough to bruise. His mouth was ruthless—lips and tongue dragging me toward the edge and then pulling back just enough to make me beg.
"Please," I gasped. "Please, Rafael—"
He didn't answer.
He growled.
And then he sent me flying.
I came with a sob, gripping his hair, legs wrapped tight around his shoulders. My vision blurred. My soul left my body. And when I opened my eyes, he was already above me, thick and hard and pushing inside me with a slow, devastating thrust.
My hands dug into his back as he filled me—stretching, breaking, remaking me with every inch.
"You feel like sin," he hissed against my throat. "And I'd burn in hell to stay inside you."
We moved together like violence and mercy, like pain and worship. Every thrust was a promise, a punishment, a prayer. Our bodies collided in a rhythm neither of us controlled, drowning in sweat and curses, gasps and moans.
When I came again, it was with his name falling from my lips like a confession.
When he followed, it was with my name shattered on his tongue—like I'd ruined him.
And maybe I had.
Because when it was over, we didn't speak.
We just lay there.
Breathing each other in.
Knowing we'd just crossed a line that could never be undone.