---
Her lips crushed into mine—soft but commanding, like she'd waited a lifetime and refused to wait another second.
I didn't kiss her back at first.
I couldn't.
Not from shock.
Not even fear.
But because every part of me was short-circuiting.
Her robe fell further, the silk sliding from her shoulders and pooling at her waist, revealing the full curve of her breasts—perfect, bare, pressed against my chest.
My hands were still on her hips, but she guided them higher.
"Touch me properly," she whispered, biting my bottom lip before pulling back just enough to stare into my eyes. "You're mine now. You don't need permission anymore."
Her voice was liquid heat, pouring through my bloodstream.
I obeyed.
I ran my hands up the curve of her waist, feeling her ribs expand with each breath, until my palms cupped her breasts. She let out the softest moan, grinding her hips lower, right against me—and man, I was already hard, straining against silk sheets and a reality I no longer understood.
"I dreamed about this," I said hoarsely.
She smiled darkly. "I didn't dream. I planned."
She rocked forward again, slow, deliberate, letting her warmth press right against the ridge in my boxers. My head tipped back, and she used that moment to trail her mouth along my jaw, my throat, down to my chest.
Her hands slid under the sheet, tugging the last of the fabric down. I was completely exposed now—physically, mentally, emotionally. Everything I had was in her hands.
And she knew it.
"You've been looking at me for a year," she whispered, dragging her nails down my stomach. "Watching me like I was untouchable. Like you'd burn if you got too close."
She kissed my hip. "Guess what, Nathan? You were right."
Then she slid down and took me into her mouth—slow, deep, warm.
I cursed aloud, grabbing the sheets, every muscle tensing as she set a rhythm that was maddening and perfect. She alternated between flicks of her tongue and gentle sucks, never breaking eye contact once she came back up, her mouth wet and glistening.
"Still think you're dreaming?" she asked, voice raspy.
I couldn't speak. I just reached for her—pulled her back up—and kissed her like I needed her to breathe. She laughed softly against my mouth, crawling up to straddle me again.
Her folds pressed against me, hot and slick. Teasing. Torturing.
"Beg for it," she said.
I stared at her. "You already own me."
She smirked. "I know. But I want to hear it."
"Please," I whispered, my voice cracked and real. "I want you."
She sank down in one slow, endless motion—and everything went white.
---
She rode me like she had something to prove.
And maybe she did.
I'd never seen her like this—so raw, so wild. Every moan she let out was a claim, every kiss a brand. When she came, she bit my neck like she wanted her mark on my skin. And when I followed, gasping beneath her, it was with the kind of surrender that didn't feel like defeat… it felt like fate.
She collapsed on top of me, her breath hot against my ear.
"Mine," she whispered.
I barely had the strength to nod.
But then—
Her phone rang.
She cursed under her breath, rolled off me, and snatched it off the nightstand.
"What?" she snapped, voice sharp, like a different version of her had taken over.
A pause.
Her entire posture changed. From seductive to steel. She was already grabbing her discarded robe and sliding it over her shoulders.
"I have to go," she said quickly. "Don't move. I'll be back soon."
"Wait—what's going on?"
She turned at the door. "Just stay here. No one else is supposed to—"
Click.
Door slammed.
Gone.
I lay there, still naked, still stunned.
My mind finally started catching up to my body. What just happened?
I died… right?
And now I was in her bed. Married to her. Screwed senseless by her.
And yet it all still felt—
Knock knock.
I froze.
That was fast. Was she already back?
I pulled on the bedsheet, wrapped it loosely around my waist, and padded barefoot toward the door.
Another knock.
Lighter. Teasing.
I cracked it open.
"Elena?" I blinked.
But before I could say another word, she pushed past me, slammed the door shut behind her, and grabbed my face with both hands.
"You're alive," she breathed. "Holy shit, Nathan—you're alive."
And then she kissed me.
No hesitation. No warning.
Just lips. Tongue. Teeth.
My back hit the wall, her body flush against mine. Her hands tore the sheet from my waist and tossed it aside like it offended her.
"Elena, what are you—"
"I saw you die." Her voice was shaky. "I saw your body. You weren't breathing. And now you're here—here, in her house. What the hell is going on?"
"I don't know," I panted. "She said I died. She said I'm… her husband."
Her eyes widened—then narrowed.
"Of course she did," she muttered, before pushing me again—this time onto the couch.
"Elena—"
"I'm not here to talk," she said, already straddling my lap, already pulling her blouse open.
"She doesn't own you. Not completely. Not yet."
Her bra hit the floor.
"She thinks she can take you without a fight?"
She leaned in, breasts pressed against my chest, her breath hot against my jaw.
"Then she forgot who the hell I am."
And just like that, she kissed me again—harder this time. Her hips rolled, her hands explored, and everything spiraled into another fire I couldn't put out.
---