But I can’t.
With great reluctance, I pull away, my breath coming out in ragged gasps. His eyes are bright with hunger, the smirk playing at the corners of his lips telling me he’s far from satisfied with a single kiss.
“That was better than I imagined,” Ghost murmurs against my mouth.
I give him a stern look. “This can never happen again.”
“Fuck. That.”
Ghost kisses me again.
The fire inside me flares, burning hotter, brighter, until the only thing I can feel is him. Until the only thing I want is him.
This man kisses like he kills: deliberately, skillfully, and without remorse.
My hands, which should be pushing him away, grab the fabric of his shirt. Not fighting. Holding. A desperate, primal contradiction that terrifies me more than his touch.
His grip on my throat tightens ever so slightly, just enough to send a thrill through me. He nips at my lower lip, the sting of pain quickly replaced by a rush of pleasure.
The contact is electric, sending a surge of adrenaline through me. I gasp, my eyes flying open. He uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
I’m powerless to stop him.
My thoughts fragment. Professional distance. Ethical boundaries. Years of training that demand clinical detachment. All of it crumbles against the brutal intimacy of his mouth.
“Kiss me back, Geneva.”
His command is a whisper against my lips, a sensual demand that has me wanting to obey. He slowly traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. Now coaxing instead of taking.
And I surrender.
It’s a sigh. The softening of my body. The tightening of my grip on him.
I’ve studied Ghost for months. Analyzed every file, every report. I know the body pressed against me is a weapon. Trained. Lethal. Scarred. Each ridge and plane a testament to violence. I should be repulsed, but I’m enraptured.
Ghost releases his grip on my neck to place his palms against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. All the while, he never stops his sensual assault on my mouth, even as the chain links from his cuffs press against my throat. Those same chains were just used to take a life, but now they’re on my skin, breathing life into me.
No longer a threat, but a thirst for more.
I kiss him back.
His touch changes at my response. It’s not just conquering, but something more unhinged. More desperate.
I whisper his name, overwhelmed by him. Ghost swallows the tiny sound, pulling my breath into his body. A tremor runs through him, followed by a groan of pure ecstasy that has me shaking as well.
His lips curl, but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something darker and devious. Something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
To us.
He pulls back, allowing me to breathe as he trails lips along my jaw. Teeth scrape against my pulse point. Not quite biting. Not quite breaking skin. But promising that he could. That he might.
I try to stifle a moan, but I’m unsuccessful. It flows from my throat, liquid and sultry, like the dampness flowing from my pussy. Ghost freezes, his lips on my throat, his teeth testing my skin. He inhales deep and my face blooms with the heat of my embarrassment.
“I smell magnolia and pussy,” he murmurs.
Something shifts. Breaks. His façade shattering.
No more calculated precision.
No more meticulous control.
Just raw need.
He drops his hands and shoves one between my thighs to grip me, and I’m shocked by my own response as my legs instinctively spread for him. The wall is cold against my back. His body is fire. Burning. Consuming.
His touch is rough, almost brutal. Like he knows I won’t break. Like he knows I can take whatever he has to give. He sweeps his thumb across the crotch of my leggings, the material chafing against my sensitive flesh. The friction makes me groan.
“Fuck, Geneva. You’re soaking wet.”
His words only make the ache worse.
He presses his palm against my mound, the pressure deliciously maddening. His other hand grips my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh. I can feel the strength in him, the power. Every flex of his hand could end my life. The knowledge makes me euphoric.
Eyes closed, I arch into him, grinding against his palm, desperate for more. He responds with a growl, the sound low and primal as it sweeps past my ears and straight between my thighs.
I don’t care if this is wrong. I don’t care that he’s a murderer. A psychopath. All I care about is how he makes me feel.
Sexy.
Seen.
Safe.
Things I’ve never felt before, all at once.
CHAPTER 32
GENEVA
My eyes fly open when Ghost snatches my wrist and moves my hand to rest on his cock. Damn. Even through his pants, I can tell he’s huge. Thick and hard, straining against the fabric. Pulsing against my palm.
“Can you feel what you do to me?” he asks, his voice a harsh whisper. “You drive me fucking crazy.”
“You’re already insane,” I whisper.
His confession sends a thrill through me. I grip his cock, stroking it through his pants. He groans, his fingers digging painfully into my hip.
He laughs, the sound low and wicked. “True. But you make me worse.”
“I doubt it.”
“Trust me, Doc.” He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You don’t want to know what I’m capable of. What ‘crazy’ really looks like.”
The words should terrify me. Instead, they send a bolt of heat through me. I’m playing with fire, but maybe that’s what I need.
I tighten my grip, stroking him harder. He groans, his hips rocking against my palm as he buries his face in my neck.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice strained.
I can feel him spiraling, giving me control over him. Good.
“Are you going to come for me, Ghost?” I whisper.
He jerks up his head to pin me with his dark gaze. “Only when I fuck you.”
Ghost grabs my hips and spins me around so quickly I stagger before landing against the glass. The second I push away from the wall, he throws his bound hands over my head, the cold chain links of his cuffs now resting just under my chin.
Then his hand is at the back of my head, pushing my cheek against the window. His hold is unyielding, a pressure that I can’t escape. And I don’t want to.
Keeping his gaze locked on mine, he slowly releases me to reach down and grip my pussy. In the reflection of the glass, I can see everything. The heat and desire in his eyes. The way his lips are parted, his breathing ragged.
He’s dangerously beautiful.
“Put your hands on the glass,” he commands.
I comply without hesitation, pressing my palms flat against the smooth, cool surface. The position exposes me, opens me up in a way that’s as frightening as it is exhilarating.
“Keep them there,” he says.
Ghost slides his fingers up and down the seam of my leggings, the fabric dampening more with each pass. “I’m going to make you come. Right here. Right now.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. All I can do is feel.
So, this is what it’s like.
The thought whirls through my mind in tandem with Ghost’s caress as he circles my clit with his thumb. In this illicit, forbidden moment, I am acutely, painfully alive. I’m connected to a visceral truth that I’ve spent a lifetime denying: to feel is the very essence of what it means to be human.