AYLA
His eyes were heavy-lidded, the colour black, intoxicated.
His thumb grazed my lips, and his words were coarse, like he hadn't spoken in a while.
"Some things can't be named, Bambolina."
Pressure burst into tingles and flame.
My veins burned up like a line of gunpowder, shooting flames of light behind my eyes.
"Then make me feel something that can't be named."
That was all it took.
His lips slammed into mine with dark possessiveness.
I choked on a moan, digging my hand into his hair as he lifted me.
He cupped my ass, squeezing hard as he led us to the desk. He didn't think, didn't check—with one hand, everything on the desk fell to the marble floor.
The sound of glass shattering did nothing to make him break away or end the kiss.
By the time he finally pulled away, I felt air rush into my lungs. My lips were red, tingling, swollen, and my head was spinning.
Satisfaction shimmered in his eyes, with a dark-blue glow dripping into my chest like a leaky tap.
