Ransom’s face is drawn tight, and I lift my hands to smooth it away, but he grabs my wrists, hard, punishing, and I gasp, not fighting him as he pushes them behind me and someone else locks them in place.

His fingers trail down the center of my chest, under my breasts, and down my ribs. They bite into my hips, then slip into my underwear.

I suck in a breath, eager, as he presses over my clit, his lips parting, short, quick puffs leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut.

My hands lift, planting on his pecs, and he freezes, his fingers attempting to retract, but like in the darkness of the bathroom, a hand catches his, holding him there, so I push mine higher.

Past the rapid beating of his heart and over the throbbing pulse in his neck, until his face is nestled between my palms.

He takes a slow, jagged breath, and slowly, oh so slowly, his hand begins to work me.

I bring myself closer, the proof of my excitement coating his fingers, my breaths just as shallow as his own.

His eyes peel open, the hand on Beretta’s chest prying itself free, and coming down on my ass. He squeezes, and suddenly Beretta’s hand between our bodies is too much for him, for me.

Beretta senses it’s time.

He yanks his away, and in the same second, I’m lifted off my feet, spun and set on the edge of the pool table.

My feet lock around his hips and he grips my face.

His eyes are hard, almost angry, and his nostrils flare wildly.

He growls, his lips curling, and then his mouth smashes into mine.

It’s hard and demanding and I’m gasping, but he doesn’t let me breathe, he takes all I have and gives me all he can.

His tongue is raring, fighting to memorize my every taste, every swipe more purposeful, more controlled.

Just... more by every sense of the word.

My body is the one vibrating now and from nothing but his kiss.

But it’s not just his kiss.

It’s the way the sun beams off the side of his face, the cuts in his forehead, and harsh lines along his brows. It’s the way he takes what he wants and with pride, with desire.

Desperation.

Our eyes seem to open at the same time and still he doesn’t tear away.

He grips me harder, staring into my eyes as his darken before me, a majestic, mayhem blue.

He stares like I’m not real, as if I’m not naked and latched to him, as if he doesn’t believe he’s the one holding on to me. Kissing me, though his mouth hasn’t stopped moving, but his lips stay pressed on mine.

We pant, drawing in short spurts of air through the tiny space our lips leave room for.