The crash was the first thing that registered—the screech of wood against the rug and the soft, chaotic patter of hundreds of cardboard pieces raining down like confetti. The English countryside she’d been tormenting him with was officially destroyed, scattered across the floor in an avalanche of green and blue.
Isla barely had time to process her victory before her world tilted on its axis. One moment she was the queen, smug and in control on the floor; the next, she was being manhandled by a starving animal.

The air left her lungs in a sharp woosh as she hit the cushions of the sofa, the sudden shift in power dizzying and absolutely thrilling. She didn't even try to fight him. This was exactly what she wanted—the sensible man shattered, replaced by this desperate, ravenous force.

"Julian—" she gasped, but his name was swallowed by a choked, high-pitched cry as his face buried itself between her thighs.

The sensation was blinding. There was no warmup, no gentle teasing like she had given him. He was everywhere at once—the rough scrape of his stubble against her inner thighs, the heat of his breath, and the broad, flat pressure of his tongue claiming her with a hunger that bordered on violence.

"Oh god," she moaned, her head thrashing back against the armrest. Her hips lifted off the cushions, instinctively grinding into his face, trying to get closer to the friction.

He was devouring her, his tongue sweeping deep, drinking her down as if he’d been dying of thirst. The sounds of his eating—wet, slushy, and uninhibited—echoed in the quiet room, mixing with her own ragged breathing. It was too much, and yet she felt greedy for more.

Her hands flailed for purchase, finding the hem of the shirt she was wearing—his shirt—which was bunched uncomfortably around her waist. With a frantic, needy noise, she clawed at the fabric, yanking it violently up toward her neck until it was bunched beneath her chin, leaving her completely exposed to the cool air and his hot mouth.

She needed to feel more. Her nerves were frying, overloaded by the assault between her legs, but she needed to ground herself in her own body.

Her left hand flew up, fingers splaying wide to cup the heavy weight of her own breast. She squeezed hard, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, her thumb finding her nipple and pinching it sharply. The sting of pain mixed with the pleasure below, sending a fresh jolt of electricity down her spine.

"Ah! F-fuck..." she stuttered, a broken, guttural moan tearing from her throat.

She squeezed her breast again, harder, twisting her hips as he sucked the very soul out of her. She was a mess of tangled limbs and exposed skin, writhing on her sofa while puzzle pieces littered the floor, completely ruined by the man currently drowning in her.

The wreckage of the puzzle was irrelevant. The only landscape that mattered now was this—the terrain of her skin, the heat radiating from her core, the way she tasted like ruin and sugar. He was starving. He hadn’t realized how hollow he’d been untill her taste hit his tongue, and now he was gorging himself, dragging his tongue flat and hard against her slickness, chasing the tremors that started in her center and rattled through her limbs.

He felt her hips buck, grinding his face harder against her, and a low, possessive growl vibrated in his chest against her skin. He wanted to swallow her whole. He wanted to be the only thing she felt, the only thing she knew.

When the fabric of his shirt ripped upward, he didn't stop, but the sudden exposure of skin made him pause just long enough to flick his gaze upward without lifting his mouth from her. Through the dark fringe of his lashes, the sight nearly undid him.

She was flushed, head thrown back, throat arched in a beautiful line of agony. But it was her hand that locked his focus. Her fingers were clawed into her own breast, kneading the soft flesh, pinching the peak until it was stark and hard. Seeing her touch herself, seeing her need for friction that matched the violence of his mouth, snapped something further inside him.

He released one hand from gripping her thigh and reached up. His palm slammed over hers, large and encompassing, trapping her hand against her own skin. He didn't gently guide her; he squeezed, his fingers locking over hers, crushing her breast beneath their combined weight. It wasn't about helping her. It was about claiming the sensation. He needed to feel the heartbeat hammering beneath the skin, needed to own the pleasure she was trying to give herself. He squeezed hard, rough and demanding, and as she cried out, he dove back in, his tongue lashing deeper, determined to wreck her as thoroughly as she had wrecked his control.

He couldn't—he couldn't breathe. The taste of her, the sight of her hand gripping her own flesh, the way she was unraveling beneath him; it snapped the last tether of his patience. He couldn't just taste her anymore. He needed to be inside the heat he’d been worshipping.

With a guttural snarl, he tore himself away from her warmth. The loss of contact was immediate physical pain, like ripping a bandage off a fresh wound. He scrambled to his feet, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, stumbling slightly over the scattered ruins of the puzzle.

He didn’t bother with finesse. His hands were shaking as they flew to his waist, fumbling with the button of his trousers. He popped it open, shoving the denim and his boxers down his thighs in one frantic, harsh motion, freeing himself into the cool air of the room.

He dropped back onto the sofa heavily, legs spread wide, his chest heaving as he looked down at her. She was still sprawled where he’d left her, a beautiful, wrecked mess.

"Get up," he commanded, his voice a wrecked rasp, barely recognizing the sound as his own. He reached out, grabbing her wrist to pull her upright. "Come here. Now."

She moved to climb over him, her knee lifting to straddle his waist, but he stopped her, his hands gripping her hips to halt the motion.

"No," he said sharply, his eyes dark and dilated, burning into hers. "Don't straddle me. Just sit. Sit right on my lap."

The command—Sit. Sit right on my lap—hit her like a physical blow, vibrating straight down to the core that was already aching for him. It wasn't a request; it was an instruction from a man who had completely bypassed his higher brain functions. And God, did she want to follow it. Every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to climb onto him, to sink down and let him claim the wreckage he’d just made of her.

But in the haze of heat and adrenaline, a small, persistent alarm bell rang in the back of her mind. It was the only shred of rationality left in the room.

"Wait," she gasped, the word tearing out of her throat.

Before he could reach for her again, she scrambled backward, sliding off the cushions and onto the floor. The loss of his body heat was instantaneous and cruel. As she stood, the heavy cotton of his t-shirt unbunched from her waist and fell down to her mid-thighs, veiling the flushed skin he’d just been worshipping.

She felt his gaze on her back—confused, dark, and searing—as she turned and hurried toward the kitchen. Her legs felt like jelly, trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d done to her, and the cold air of the house bit at her damp skin.

"Don't move," she called out breathlessly over her shoulder, a flimsy command given to a lion.

She navigated the debris of the puzzle pieces scattered on the rug, her bare feet padding silently into the kitchen. The room was bright, quiet, and deceptively normal. There, on the granite island next to their empty Earl Grey mugs, sat the sleek black box they’d abandoned last night.

She snatched it up, her fingers fumbling slightly as she fished out a single silver square. The crinkle of the foil seemed impossibly loud in the silence. She gripped it tight in her fist, the sharp corner digging into her palm, a grounding anchor against the dizziness swirling in her head.

She didn't stop to think. She couldn't. If she paused for even a second, she might melt right there on the tile.

She turned and walked back.

Julian hadn't moved an inch, but he looked like he was vibrating with the effort of staying put. He was sprawled on the sofa, legs spread wide, chest heaving, his eyes tracking her return with a predatory intensity that made her knees weak all over again. He looked like a ruined king waiting for his tribute.

Isla walked right up to him, stepping between his spread knees until her thighs brushed against his bare skin. The air between them was thick enough to choke on.

She didn't say anything at first. She simply reached out and pressed the silver packet firmly into the center of his open palm.

"You looked like you were about to skip a step," she breathed, her voice a smoky mixture of teasing and demand. She looked him in the eye, dropping her gaze pointedly to his lap and then back up to his face. "Put it on, Julian. Because once I sit down, I promise you... we aren't stopping again."

The silver packet felt cold against the burning heat of his palm, a sharp, metallic reality check that cut through the haze of lust clouding his vision. Julian looked down at it, then slowly dragged his gaze up the length of her bare legs, past the hem of his own t-shirt that clung to her curves, and finally to her eyes.

He didn't say it—he wouldn't dare admit it out loud, not when she was looking at him with that fierce, challenging intelligent glint—but a dark, selfish part of him had been hoping she’d forget. In the feral rush of the moment, his logic had shattered. He had wanted nothing between them. He had wanted the raw, wet heat of her completely unbarred, wanted to bury himself inside her and feel every single texture of her warmth without a barrier to dull the sensation. He had wanted to be reckless with her.

But she was right. God, she was always right.

He swallowed the protest rising in his throat, forcing his features to remain neutral, masking that flash of disappointment with a rough, crooked smirk. He wasn't going to let her see that for a split second, he’d been willing to risk everything just to be closer to her.

"I wasn't skipping anything," he lied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in his chest. "I was just... impatient."

With a fluid, sharp motion, he tore the foil open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers. The sound was a harsh snap in the quiet room. He took care of the protection quickly, efficiently, his hands moving with a practiced speed because he refused to let the air cool between them for another second.

When he was done, he didn't wait. He reached out, his large hands gripping her hips through the soft cotton of the t-shirt, his thumbs digging into the curve of her waist to anchor her. The heat of her body seeped into his palms, grounding him, driving him mad.

He looked up at her, his blue eyes blown wide and dark, filled with a worshipful hunger that bordered on obsession.

"Now," he growled softly, tightening his grip to guide her forward until her knees hit the sofa cushions. "Sit down, beautiful. Exactly where you belong."

The lie was obvious—she saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before he masked it with that crooked smirk—but she didn't call him on it. She understood the impulse. God, she felt it too. Every inch of her skin was screaming for the raw, unadulterated heat of him, for the friction of skin on skin without the clinical slide of latex between them.
But she couldn't.

As he tore the packet open with his teeth, a flash of memory hit her, sharp and unbidden. She remembered a bathroom tile floor, a plastic stick, and the sudden, terrifying realization that a moment of passion with Kai had irrevocably altered the trajectory of her life. She adored Wren—her daughter was the single best thing that had ever happened to her—but the marriage that followed? That had been a slow-motion car crash of incompatibility, forced together by biology rather than choice.

She looked at Julian—at the intense, singular focus in his eyes, the way his hands shook slightly as he sheathed himself—and felt a fierce, protective squeeze in her chest. She liked him too much to trap him. She respected what they were building too much to let it be defined by an accident. If he stayed, it would be because he chose her, every single day, not because of a broken condom or a reckless Saturday morning.

"Impatient," she echoed softly, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she accepted his lie. "I can work with impatient."

When his hands gripped her hips, pulling her forward, she didn't resist. But she didn't climb over him either. The command to sit rang clear in her head, and for once, she surrendered control completely.

She turned around, breaking eye contact to present her back to him.

It was a vulnerable position, leaving her blind to his expressions, but the feel of his hands sliding from her hips to the front of her thighs, guiding her, was grounding. She reached back, her hands finding his shoulders to steady herself as she lifted onto her toes.

She hesitated for a split second, the head of him brushing against her entrance, hot and hard even through the barrier. She took a shaky breath, squeezed his shoulders, and then simply sat.

She sank down onto him in one slow, fluid motion, letting gravity do the work.
"Oh—" The gasp was punched out of her as he filled her completely, stretching her in a way that felt impossibly deep.

It was overwhelming. Even with the condom, the sensation of him taking up space inside her, claiming her while she was surrounded by the safety of his arms, was enough to make her vision blur. She landed softly against his lap, her back pressing into the solid wall of his chest, her bottom resting on his thighs.

She tipped her head back onto his shoulder, seeking his skin, her breathing coming in shallow, ragged bursts.

"Julian," she breathed, the name a shuddering release. She felt full, anchored, and terrifyingly safe. "You fit... you fit perfectly."

"God..." The word fractured on his tongue as she sank that last inch.

His head dropped back against the sofa cushion, eyes squeezing shut as the sensation washed over him—a tidal wave of heat and tightness that nearly ended him right there. The latex was a barrier, yes, but the weight of her, the way her body gripped him, the sheer reality of being inside Isla... it was vivid enough to make stars dance behind his eyelids.

He gritted his teeth, his hands gripping her hips bruisingly tight for a second as he adjusted. He couldn't just sit there. He needed leverage. He shimmied his hips forward, slouching slightly lower on the cushions to angle himself upward, creating a steeper, deeper path into her.

"Perfectly," he groaned, the vibration of his voice rumbling against her back. "You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

He needed to encompass her. He freed one hand from her hip, wrapping his arm around her ribcage to capture her breast. His palm cupped the heavy weight of it, fingers digging in, thumb brushing over the nipple he’d just tormented, needing to feel that heartbeat racing under his hand.

His other hand slid down the flat plane of her stomach, diving between her legs where they were joined. He found the slick, swollen bundle of nerves instantly, his fingers beginning a rhythmic, maddening stroke.

"Lean back," he rasped against her ear, needing her weight fully against him.
Then he began to move. He snapped his hips upward, driving into her with a sharp, bucking rhythm. It wasn't a gentle slide; it was a hard, possessive thrust, aiming for the deepest part of her, forcing a friction that made his own toes curl.

He couldn't get close enough. Even buried inside her, with her back flush against his chest, he felt a desperate need to fuse them together completely.

He turned his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin—sweat and vanilla and something uniquely Isla. His lips found the sensitive skin just below her ear, pressing an open-mouthed, wet kiss there before dragging his mouth along her jawline to the side of her face.

"Isla," he breathed against her cheek, the stubble on his chin grazing her flushed skin.

He kept the rhythm brutal and consistent, snapping his hips upward to hit that deep, sweet spot over and over again. His hand between her legs moved in time with his thrusts, his fingers working her swiftly, relentlessly. He wanted to overload her. He wanted to surround her with sensation until she couldn't tell where his hands ended and his body began.

"Don't hold back," he murmured against her temple, kissing the damp hair clinging to her skin. "Come for me. Take it."

Isla didn't have to be told twice. As his hips snapped upward, hitting a spot so deep inside her that it made her toes curl against the rug, she let her head fall back onto his shoulder, surrendering her weight completely to the solid wall of his chest.

The sensation was a siege on her senses. She was surrounded by him—his arm clamping her ribs, his hand claiming her breast, his fingers working a frantic magic between her legs, and the thick, heavy length of him stretching her open. It was too much, and yet, she found herself greedy for more.

"Julian," she gasped, the sound ragged as she turned her face into his neck, blindly seeking contact.

She couldn't stay still. The brutal, upward buck of his hips was driving her mad, but she needed to meet it. She needed to grind against the friction he was creating. She began to rotate her hips, a slow, rolling motion that churned against his lap. She wasn't just taking him; she was exploring him, angling her pelvis to feel the ridge of him rub against sensitive walls, seeking to be filled to the absolute brim.

"More," she whimpered, the word vibrating against his sweaty skin. "I need... god, I need all of it."

Her hand flew up, reaching blindly behind her head until her fingers tangled into the thick, damp hair at the nape of his neck. She gripped him tight, using his hair as a lifeline, an anchor to keep her from floating away into the abyss he was opening up beneath her. She tugged his head down, forcing his face into the crook of her neck, needing his hot breath on her pulse point as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

The combination of his relentless hand on her clit and the rolling grind of her hips against his erection was becoming unbearable. The pleasure wasn't a wave anymore; it was a riptide. It was pulling her under, dragging her down into a dark, electric place where nothing existed but his name and his touch.

"Don't... don't you stop," she warned, her voice cracking as her hips moved faster, abandoning the slow rotation for a sharp, frantic grinding. She dug her nails into his scalp, arching her back, pressing her breast firmly into his capturing hand. "I’m close... Julian, I’m right there."

His growl against her ear, telling her to take it, was the final push.

The world fractured. It started in her core, a white-hot spark that exploded outward, seizing her muscles in a violent, beautiful spasm. She cried out, a high, shattered sound that echoed off the high ceilings, her body clamping down around him in rhythmic, milking pulses. She gripped his hair so hard she was sure it hurt, her forehead pressing back against his cheek as the waves crashed over her, one after another, leaving her trembling and utterly undone in his arms.

The feeling of her coming apart around him was nearly his undoing. As her muscles clamped down, milking him in rhythmic, devastating pulses, Julian had to throw his head back and grind his teeth together, a guttural roar tearing from his throat just to keep from spilling himself right then and there. It was a vice-grip of heat and velvet, a sensation so intense his vision blurred at the edges.

He was close. dangerously, painfully close. The blood was roaring in his ears, thrumming a frantic beat that demanded release, but a desperate, greedy need seized him. He didn't want to finish against her back. He didn't want to be buried in the crook of her neck when he fell over the edge. He needed to see her. He needed to watch the lights go out in her eyes as he poured himself into her.

"Wait," he gasped, the word ragged and harsh.
With a strength born of desperation, he gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled himself out of the tight, wet haven of her body. The loss of friction was a physical ache, a sharp deprivation that made him hiss, but he didn’t give her a moment to mourn the loss.

"Turn around," he commanded, his voice a low, rough rumble that brooked no argument. "I need to see you, Isla. I need to see your face."

He guided her movements, his hands large and commanding on her waist as he helped her swivel. He didn't wait for her to settle; he was starving for her. As soon as she was facing him, her legs parting to bracket his hips, he gripped her thighs and pulled her down.

The reconnection was a shock to his system, sweeter and deeper than before. She sank onto him, impaling herself inch by agonizing inch until they were flush against each other. Julian let out a shattered breath, his hands flying up to cup her face, framing her flushed cheeks.

She was a wreck, and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her lips were swollen, her eyes blown wide and hazed with lingering pleasure, her hair a chaotic halo around her face. Seeing her like this—completely unraveled because of him—snapped the last thread of his control.

"Look at me," he rasped, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones, forcing her gaze to lock with his. "Watch me. Watch what you do to me."
He didn't hold back. He couldn't. He drove upward, his hips snapping with a feral, rhythmic intensity, burying himself as deep as anatomy would allow. He watched her eyes flutter, watched her breath hitch, and that was the catalyst.

"Isla," he groaned, her name a prayer and a curse on his lips.
He surged into her one final, crushing time and broke. The pleasure hit him like a physical blow, a tidal wave of white-hot release that started at the base of his spine and shattered him completely. He held her gaze even as his body convulsed, pouring everything he had into her, shaking with the force of his own unraveling, undone by the sight of her watching him fall apart.

The tremors were still rolling through him, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against his ribs, but the physical release wasn’t enough. It didn’t settle the sudden, frantic need to be closer, to bridge the nonexistent gap between their souls. He needed to seal this, to taste the cry he’d just wrung out of her, to breathe the air she was exhaling.

Before the last wave of pleasure had fully receded, Julian’s hands slid from her face to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling roughly in her hair. He didn’t ask; he took. With a low, desperate sound in his throat, he pulled her head down and crashed his mouth against hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision—chaotic, starving, and utterly maddening.

He kissed her as if he were trying to devour her whole, his lips moving over hers with a feverish intensity that bordered on bruising. He swept his tongue into her mouth, tasting her taste, drinking down her ragged gasps and making them his own. It was a kiss of possession, a claiming that went deeper than skin and bone. He slanted his mouth over hers, changing the angle, deepening the contact until he felt like he was drowning in her.

Every slide of their tongues, every clash of teeth fueled the fire that should have been extinguished. It felt like he was breathing her in, replacing the oxygen in his lungs with her essence. He tightened his grip on her nape, holding her locked against him, unable to tolerate even an inch of separation. The world had narrowed down to this: the wet heat of her mouth, the weight of her thighs bracketing his waist, and the intoxicating, maddening realization that she was his.

Julian finally broke the seal of their mouths, though he didn't go far. He leaned back, bracing his weight on his elbows, his chest heaving as he simply looked at her. The sight of her perched there, claiming him, was enough to steal the breath right back out of his lungs. She was still impaled on him, her hips resting heavy and perfect against his, keeping him sheathed deep inside her warmth even as the aftershocks began to fade into a simmering, golden glow.

He took a moment just to admire the wreckage he’d made of her—and she of him. She looked like a ruin of pure pleasure, her hair wild, her lips bitten and red, sitting atop him like a queen on a throne.

His hands, trembling slightly, began to roam. They slid from her waist, tracing the inward curve of her spine, moving over her ribs until his palms found the soft, heavy weight of her breasts. He cupped them, his thumbs brushing over the skin that was so strikingly pale it looked like alabaster in the dim light.
"Beautiful," he murmured, the word vibrating against her skin as he leaned forward.

He used his palms to push her breasts together, gathering her softness, and buried his face between them. He let out a long, contented exhale, surrounding himself with her scent and her heat. It was a shift from the feral intensity of moments ago to something reverent. He nuzzled into the deep valley of her cleavage, his stubble grazing the delicate skin before he began to press soft, open-mouthed kisses against the swell of her chest. He kissed the pale, milky skin with a slow, deliberate tenderness, worshipping the rise and fall of her breathing, his lips lingering on the softness that cushioned him.

The kiss had left her head spinning, a chaotic, bruising collision that tasted of possession and promised that he wasn't going anywhere. When he finally pulled back, leaving her lips throbbing, wet, and undoubtedly red, Isla felt a strange, heavy languor settle into her bones—a feeling of being thoroughly used and entirely cherished all at once.

She stayed right where she was, her thighs heavy and relaxed around his waist, keeping him sheathed inside her warmth. The storm had passed, the frenzy fading into a glowing, golden aftermath, but she wasn't ready to let go of the anchor. She liked the weight of him, the way he filled the empty spaces, the way they were still tangled together amidst the absolute ruins of her living room.

When his hands moved to her chest, pushing her breasts together to create a sanctuary for his face, her breath hitched in a soft, contented sigh that seemed to deflate her entire body.

The sensation of his rough, morning stubble dragging against the incredibly sensitive, pale skin of her cleavage sent a fresh shiver down her spine—not the electric jolt of arousal this time, but a warm, melting wave of affection that was almost scarier. It was such a stark, dizzying contrast: the man who had just dismantled her with the feral intensity of a starving animal was now nuzzling her with the gentleness of a devotee at an altar.

"Julian," she whispered, the name falling soft and breathless into the quiet room.

She looked down at the dark crown of his head resting against her pale skin, the visual striking her as impossibly intimate. Her heart was beating a steady, heavy rhythm against his cheek—thump-thump, thump-thump—and she knew he could hear it. He was listening to the evidence of what he did to her, counting the beats as they slowly returned to a human pace.

She lifted her hands, threading her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, massaging his scalp with a slow, soothing touch. She scraped her nails lightly against the back of his neck, feeling the tension finally leaving his shoulders. She pressed him closer, silently encouraging him to stay there, to take whatever comfort he needed from her body.

Her eyes drifted past him for a moment to the floor. The "English Countryside" was a disaster—cardboard sky and shrubbery scattered across the rug, the coffee table shoved crookedly aside, his clothes in a pile. It was chaos. And she realized, with a start, that she didn't care about the mess at all.

"For the record," she murmured, her voice husky, a small, tired smile touching her lips as she gazed back down at him. "I think I prefer the unsensible version of you. He makes a much better pillow."

She felt him smile against her skin, a small shift of his jaw, and she leaned her chin on the top of his head, closing her eyes. She inhaled the scent of him—musk, sweat, and that unique, crisp scent that was just Julian—and felt a terrifyingly profound sense of peace settle over her in the middle of the wreckage.

"You are..." she started, then paused. The banter she usually used as a shield died on her tongue, replaced by a truth that slipped out before she could catch it. She tightened her grip in his hair just slightly. "You are dangerous for my heart, Julian."

The steady, rhythmic thud of her heart against his cheek was the only sound Julian wanted to hear for the rest of his life. It was a drumbeat that drowned out the rational parts of his brain—the parts that usually kept him composed, cool, and detached. But here, wrapped in the warmth of her thighs and buried against her skin, composure felt like a distant, unnecessary memory.

He felt the vibration of her voice when she spoke, the husky timbre of it travelling through her chest and straight into him. The "unsensible" version. He let out a low, rough sound against her skin—half-laugh, half-groan—and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the soft curve of her breast, relishing the way her breath hitched in response. He liked that. He liked that the polished, composed Isla had unravelled just as thoroughly as he had.

But it was her second admission, the whisper about danger, that made him finally move.

Slowly, reluctantly, Julian levered himself up on his forearms. His muscles protested the movement, pleasantly exhausted, but he needed to see her face. He looked down at her, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, searching her flushed features. She looked thoroughly wrecked—hair fanned out in a chaotic halo, lips swollen and bitten red, looking at him with a vulnerability that made his chest ache.

He shifted his weight, settling deeper into the cradle of her hips, enjoying the friction and the way she instinctively tightened around him. He took a brief second to survey the carnage around them. The "English Countryside" looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Cardboard trees were bent in half; the coffee table was practically in the kitchen. It was a testament to a loss of control he hadn't known he was capable of until he met her.

He brought a hand up, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His expression wasn't apologetic. It was possessive.

"I think the danger is mutual, älskling," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register reserved only for her. "Look at what you made me do to your living room. A sensible man doesn't destroy the scenery."

He leaned down, brushing his lips against hers, just a feather-light touch compared to the bruising kiss from moments before.

"But if I’m dangerous for your heart," he pulled back just an inch, his gaze locking onto hers with intense seriousness, "does that mean you’re finally admitting I have it?"