He didn't move.
He was waiting.
Her world had shrunk to the infinitesimal space between their mouths, to the hot, shared air that was all that separated his promise from her surrender. Her heart was a wild, frantic thing against her ribs, and every fiber of her being was pulled taut, straining toward him. She could feel the tremor in her own limbs, a delicious, terrifying weakness.
A low, rough sound rumbled in his chest. "Prendi ciò di cui hai bisogno, sposina." The Italian was a dark caress, a whispered command that was also a granting of permission. Take what you need.
It broke the last of her resistance. The fight, the confusion, the jealousy—it all melted into a single, desperate yearning. With a soft, surrendering sound, she closed the final, agonizing distance.
Her lips met his.
It wasn't a gentle meeting. It was a collision. A claiming. His mouth was every bit as demanding as his personality, hot and insistent, moving against hers with a mastery that stole the breath from her lungs. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her exactly where he wanted her. There was no hesitation, no exploration. Only possession.
And she gave it to him. Willingly. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, came up to fist in the expensive fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself against the dizzying spiral of sensation. He tasted of expensive espresso and something uniquely, darkly Darius. It was an intoxicating flavor; one she instantly craved more of.
He growled against her mouth, the vibration humming through her. His other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his body. Every inch of her felt alive, hyper-aware—the rough texture of his wool suit against her silk blouse, the solid strength of his thigh pressed between hers, the dizzying scent of his cologne mixed with the clean smell of his skin.
He angled his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping past her lips to tangle with hers. It was a raw, primal dance that spoke of years of pent-up frustration and desire. He wasn't just kissing her; he was devouring her, branding her, chasing the ghost of every other man who had ever dared to look at her and replacing it with the undeniable, overwhelming reality of him.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his breathing as ragged as her own. His thumb stroked a slow, hypnotic rhythm against her jawline.
"Finalmente," he breathed, the word a prayer and a victory. Finally.
Layana could only cling to his shirt, her mind reeling, her body humming with a need so profound it felt like a physical ache. Her lips felt swollen, sensitized. She could still taste him.
