75. Awakening Hunger

CHAPTER 75

Awakening Hunger

ILEANA

I awaken slowly, my body sinking into the unfamiliar comfort of a real bed. The sheets are soft, caressing my skin in a way that makes me hyperaware of the fact I’m naked beneath them. There’s no cold floor, no cold wind biting at my skin. The air is still, peaceful enough to make me wonder if I’m dreaming.

Where am I?

Then his scent wraps around me—expensive cologne mixed with something darker. The kind of scent that sinks into your skin and stays there. A lot like the person who wears it. Memories come rushing back in a dizzying wave. The endless drive through the night, the pulse of the tires on the road, the desperate fatigue weighing down my bones. The motel felt like a mirage after days of hiding, of running. And the shower, that simple luxury of hot water and real soap had nearly made me weep.

And him. Always him.

His arm lies heavy over my waist, pinning me in place, his chest pressed against my back, burning through the layers of sleep that still cling to me. Every breath I take pulls his scent deeper into me. My muscles throb, soreness from the chase blending with something more. The weight of his arm, the heat of his skin against mine, the possessive curl of his fingers at my hip … it all ignites something buried beneath exhaustion and fear. An aching hunger that starts low and tightens with every beat of my heart.

I shift slightly, testing his hold. His arm tightens instantly, his fingers digging in, his warm breath against the back of my neck. His breathing changes. Becomes deeper, slower. He’s awake. My pulse jumps, awareness of the way his body is pressed against mine, waking up every nerve ending.

"Be still." His voice is a growl, low and rough. There’s an edge to it that makes it clear he's been awake for a while, waiting. Listening to me breathe. Watching.

A thrill goes through me.

He was watching me.

The thought that he’s been lying there, his eyes on me while I slept, sets my veins on fire. I need to see him. I need to feel that gaze on me.

I shift again, twisting in his embrace until I’m facing him. The room is shrouded in shadows, only the soft gray of early dawn breaking through the curtains. His features are partially obscured, but his eyes catch the dim light, gleaming. There’s hunger there, dark, dangerous, ravenous.

"How long did I sleep?" My voice comes out breathless, my throat tight with the need to bridge the space between us.

"Six hours." His fingers trail along my jaw, deceptively soft. "You needed it. Three days of running would tire anyone out."

The lack of emotion in his tone snaps something inside me. Always so precise. So perfectly contained. Even when he claimed me, when he tore through every wall I’d built, every defense, he always held an iron grip on his own emotions.

But now ... now I’m not that frightened girl who spilled orange juice on him. I’m not just a ghost trying to fade away. I’m not even the desperate runaway seeking refuge.

I close the gap between us, and press my mouth to his.

His response is instant. His hand knots in my hair, the grip bruising, and his lips cover mine. He takes command of the kiss, dominating, consuming, but this time, I fight back.

This is mine .

My choice.

I need him to know that I’m not just submitting to him anymore. I want this. I want him .

My teeth catch his lower lip, biting hard enough to draw a growl from deep within his chest. His fingers tighten, yanking my head back, but I push against his chest. He relents, rolling onto his back, pulling me over him.

I straddle his stomach, shuddering at the way he feels beneath me, bare skin against bare skin. I rock backward, loving the way his jaw tightens.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Ballerina." His voice is filled with the dark edge that once terrified me, but now it sends a different kind of shiver racing down my spine.

"No games." My hands press against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under my palms. I rock against him again, slower this time, savoring the way his eyes darken. "No more manipulation. No more threats."

His grip on my hips tightens. There will be bruises there soon. His fingerprints. His ownership. "Careful what you wish for."

"Or what?" My fingers trace over his chest, following the lines of muscle. They tense beneath my touch. "What will you do, Wren? Will you punish me? Make me dance to your tune? Document every surrender like you did in your ballroom?"

There’s a dangerous light in his eyes. His hold tightens, but he lies still.

Watching. Waiting.

“You've spent the past three days looking for me," I whisper, leaning closer, until my lips touch his ear. "Organizing distractions. Moving every piece into place." My voice drops, turns teasing. "I think it’s time you let me take the lead."

His laugh is dark. "You think you can handle me?"

I sit back, straighten my spine, and place my hands behind my back. The move lifts my breasts, spreads my legs wider. His gaze tracks over me, slow, devouring. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

"Do you know what I think ..." I trail my hands over my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs, watching the way his eyes narrow. "I think you like that I’m choosing this. That this isn’t part of your plan." I dip one finger inside myself, then press it against his lips.

His tongue flicks out, licks over the pad of my fingertip, and a growl rumbles from deep inside him. His hands move, sliding over my ribs, cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples before moving on. I arch into his touch, my skin burning where his fingers pass.

"My pretty Ballerina." He sits up, his hand tangling in my hair, the other tracing fire across my skin. "You always surprise me. Always pushing at the edges."

"Not your scared little ghost girl anymore." I roll my hips against him, against his arousal, relishing the hiss of his breath. "Not something to cage or control or?—"

His mouth lands on mine, swallowing the words. There’s nothing gentle in the way he kisses me. There’s only need, possession, hunger . His teeth nip at my lower lip. The coppery taste of blood hits my tongue, and it sends a surge of desire through me.

“If this is what you want, there's no going back.” His teeth bite along my throat, his words vibrating against my skin.

I rake my nails down his spine, throwing my head back. The next thing I know, the world spins, and I’m on my back, Wren above me, his weight pinning me down. He braces on one arm, staring at me, eyes feral and wild for a second before his gaze shifts. I follow it as he reaches toward the bag by the bed. When he pulls out his camera, my breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waiting. It’s a silent question—a test of trust. The camera has always been his weapon, his way of asserting power, of capturing me in moments of surrender.

I swallow, lick my lips, and nod. His eyes darken, and a hungry smile pulls his lips up when he raises the camera. The shutter clicks, and the sound sends a shiver of adrenaline through me.

“Mine.” His voice is a growl, the camera clicking again. “Every inch. Every breath. Every piece of you.”

His free hand moves down my body, fingers rough and possessive. The flash illuminates my skin, his touch branding me. My body arches toward him, craving more. The contrast of the cold lens and his heated touch blurs the line between fear and desire.

His fingers skate over my hip, the camera tilting slightly as he captures the way I shiver beneath him, the way I’m laid bare. There’s no fear left. Just unrelenting, aching hunger.

“You want control, Ballerina?” His voice is a low rasp, his hand moving lower, fingertips skimming my thigh. “Then take it. Show me what you want.”

I grab his hair, yanking his mouth to mine. The kiss is frantic, tongues tangling, and the camera falls from his hand. He wraps his fingers around my throat, tightening just enough to make my head spin.

His grip, his weight, the way his gaze locks on mine like I’m the only thing that matters … it makes everything else fade away.

“Tell me you want me.”

I don’t reply. His fingers tighten further.

“Tell me.”

A smile pulls at my lips, breathless. “Make me.”

His laughter is dark, rough, vibrating against my chest. “Oh, my brave little Ballerina. Let’s see how long it takes me to make you beg.”