The warehouse still stank of blood when the limo pulled away. Elma sat with her thighs pressed together, body humming with leftover heat. She'd killed the rival, ripped his head clean off, but her skin still burned as if his icy tongue were dragging along her wrist.
Nitron didn't speak. He never did when he was thinking, and that silence was heavier than the corpse she left behind. His eyes fixed on the skyline outside, whiskey glass balanced between his fingers, calm enough to drive her mad.
Elma shifted, crossed her legs, uncrossed them. The limo's leather seat squeaked beneath her, every move deliberate. She wanted him to notice. She needed him to.
"You don't even ask if I'm alright," she said, tone sharp.
Nitron finally looked at her. His gaze was slow, taking her in like a predator deciding whether the deer limping in front of him was worth the chase. "If you weren't alright," he said evenly, "you'd be dead. And I don't keep corpses."
Elma's lips curved, but there was no humor. "You keep a bitch on a leash and call it loyalty. Some master."
The glass in his hand cracked. A thin line of whiskey slid across his knuckles. "Careful."
But she didn't care. She leaned across the seat, her gown slipping to reveal the cut of her thigh, her hand landing firm on his chest. His heartbeat was steady, annoyingly steady.
"You sent me to kill," she murmured, her nails dragging lightly over his shirt. "I killed. But you left me like this." Her hips shifted against the seat, slow grind, eyes locked on his. "Burning. Wanting."
Nitron's jaw tightened. She saw the flicker there, the slip of control. She pressed harder.
"I know you want it too." Her voice dropped, husky, daring. "The rivals aren't the only ones who'd fuck me until I screamed."
The next second, her back slammed into the limo's opposite door, Nitron's hand wrapped around her throat. His eyes glowed crimson, lips curved in something crueler than a smile.
"You think I'm one of them?" His voice was a growl. "Disposable, drunk on lust?"
Elma choked on the air, her nails digging into his wrist. But even as the pressure on her throat burned, her body betrayed her, hips arching, thighs parting beneath the press of his knee.
"I think," she rasped, "you're terrified you'll love it."
The limo swerved as the driver pretended not to hear the guttural sound Nitron made. He shoved her down, straddling her hips, his weight pinning her to the seat. His free hand tore her gown down the middle, fabric splitting like paper.
Her breath hitched, chest heaving, nipples hard under his touch. He dragged his mouth along her neck, slow and dangerous, leaving bruises like signatures. His cock pressed against her stomach, hard as steel, restrained only by the last shred of his control.
"You're reckless," he growled against her skin. "You rebel. You fuck clients like toys." His hand slid lower, between her thighs, where he found her dripping and ready. "And you think you can seduce me?"
Elma arched into him, a moan ripping from her throat. Her grin was wicked, defiant. "I don't think. I know."
Nitron shoved two fingers inside her, brutal and unrelenting, and her climax hit so fast she nearly screamed. White-hot, violent, her body convulsing under his grip. He didn't stop. Didn't let her catch breath.
"Mine," he snarled. "Do you understand, Elma? You come when I say. You breathe when I allow. You live because I decide."
Her nails raked his back, pleasure-blind, pain-drunk, but her words cut through with a laugh. "Then decide to fuck me harder."
For the first time, Nitron's control cracked. He pushed inside her, merciless, the limo rocking as if the city itself couldn't contain them. Every thrust was punishment and reward, every growl a reminder that she had woken something in him he swore he buried centuries ago.
Elma screamed his name until her throat went raw. And still he didn't stop.