From my vantage point, Los Angeles is beautiful. Though few stars shine above, night camouflages the ever-present blanket of smog. Spread below, the city looks like a cosmic circuitboard of currents and purpose. Majestic and mysterious. A veritable Oz.
I hear his soft footsteps. Warm hands cup my bare shoulders and lips graze the hair over my ear.
“What are you doing up, dove?”
His dove. Innocent, according to him. A symbol of peace in his life. He’s never disguised his need for me. Not once since the moment we met. It scares me, the look in his eyes that I’m seeing with increasing frequency.
What I feel in return.
I turn, pressing my camisole-clad chest to his. Muscled arms move around me, hands flowing confidently down my back to my ass. He gives me a light squeeze.
I press my mouth to the pulse at his throat. “Just getting a glass of water,” I lie.
“Mmm,” he replies, dipping his head to drag his lips across my cheekbone. “Couldn’t sleep again?”
I shrug, allowing him to provide a reason. An answer to a question he doesn’t know to ask. Cuddled against him, blanketed in his heat, I can almost forget what I just discovered.
What business do you have with Maddoc Donnelly?
I don’t speak. Can’t.
And when he spins me around, grabbing my hands and pressing my palms to the cold glass, I do forget. I forget everything but him. The scrape of bristle on my neck as his lips find purchase. The rough tug on my hips as my panties disappear.
I gasp as he yanks up my camisole and pushes me forward, forcing my breasts against the glass. My nipples harden at the contact.
“Liam,” I breathe.
Fingers dip between my legs and he growls approvingly when he finds me soaking wet.
“Spread your legs, dove,” he says.
He kicks them out further, but gently, murmuring appreciation as I bare myself to him.
“Arch your back. Ass up.”
I obey, and am deeply pleased by his muttered expletive. The barest hint of his childhood accent, which only appears when he’s tired or aroused.
A warm hand smoothes down my spine. That’s all the warning I have before he works himself into me. Bare, because he paid for blood tests for both of us and a birth control shot for me.
My eyes flutter closed, my teeth catching a whimper before it releases. It doesn’t hurt—not truly. In fact this is one of my favorite ways. No foreplay. Just his insatiable desire to claim me. Mark me as his.
I feel his need. I revel in it. I match it with mine by surrendering.
I always surrender to him.