The air hung thick with the scent of lemon polish and the lingering trace of his cologne, cedar, spice, and something darker, more possessive. It clung to my skin, a phantom caress that made my stomach clench. My body felt leaden, bruised not physically, but deep within, every muscle humming with a searing, shameful echo.
His hands. Rough and demanding, pinning mine above my head against the cool silk sheets. The searing heat of his skin branding mine. The possessive weight of him, claiming, conquering. The low growl against my ear, not of affection, but of raw, undeniable ownership: "Mine. Always mine. Feel how you burn for me, Lila. Your body doesn't lie."
He’d been relentless. A calculated tempest of dominance and devastating seduction. Every touch, every searing kiss, every deliberate thrust had been orchestrated to shatter my resistance, to prove his point: that beneath the anger, the defiance, I was still his creature. That my treacherous body craved his touch with an intensity
