He smirks, the charm he exudes infuriating as ever. “I wouldn’t dream of it, but isn’t it customary to receive a token of gratitude?”

“Like what?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them, my curiosity getting the best of me. Regret immediately sets in. God only knows what Ghost’s answer will be.

“A kiss,” he says simply.

There is nothing simple about that. In fact, I can’t think of anything worse.

I scoff, trying to mask the way my blood rushes under my skin with renewed vigor. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?” Ghost takes a step toward me. And another. His movements are fluid and graceful, like a predator closing in on its prey. “Or are you just scared?”

I glare at him as my thoughts collide, making my head ache. My attraction to Ghost is nothing more than a psychological response. A textbook case of gratitude and misplaced attachment. He saved my life, therefore, I feel drawn to him. It’s primal. It’s survival. It’s not real.

It can’t be.

But even as I analyze my behavior, the logical explanation doesn’t eradicate the flames of desire burning me. If I don’t put an end to this conversation, I’ll be nothing more than ash, a pile of long-forgotten inhibitions.

I shake my head, stepping farther back, desperate to put space between us. “I’m not scared and you’re not a hero who deserves a prize. If anything, you’re the villain in my story.”

“That’s fair. Here’s the thing about villains… They don’t ask. They just take what they want.”

His words hang in the air, dripping with that maddening confidence, his smirk daring me to respond. The room feels stifling, the tension coiled so tightly it threatens to snap.

Ghost steps closer, and I retreat, only to find the wall at my back. He stops just inches away, his breath on my lips, his presence overwhelming me. I could barely handle him on the other side of the glass, but now having his body nearly flush with mine, I’m hopeless.

“That’s why you’re dangerous,” I say quietly. “You take without thinking about the consequences.”

“Oh, I think about the consequences, Dr. Andrews. I just don’t give a shit about them.”

Ghost’s hand shoots out to grab me by the throat before he yanks me to him. His lips crash down on mine, and I freeze.

This kiss is unrelenting, possessive, forceful.

He slants his mouth over mine, his tongue seeking entrance. Seeking dominion. And somewhere beneath my indignation, beneath my confusion, a treacherous part of me comes alive.

I shouldn’t want this.

Ghost is everything I despise: a ruthless criminal who doesn’t respect the sanctity of life.

My mind screams rejection, but my body cries for more. The heat of him. The raw intensity. The dangerous edge that vibrates just beneath his skin.

But I can’t.

With great reluctance, I pull away, my breath coming out in ragged gasps. His eyes are bright with hunger, the smirk playing at the corners of his lips telling me he’s far from satisfied with a single kiss.

“That was better than I imagined,” Ghost murmurs against my mouth.

I give him a stern look. “This can never happen again.”

“Fuck. That.”

Ghost kisses me again.

The fire inside me flares, burning hotter, brighter, until the only thing I can feel is him. Until the only thing I want is him.

This man kisses like he kills: deliberately, skillfully, and without remorse.

My hands, which should be pushing him away, grab the fabric of his shirt. Not fighting. Holding. A desperate, primal contradiction that terrifies me more than his touch.

His grip on my throat tightens ever so slightly, just enough to send a thrill through me. He nips at my lower lip, the sting of pain quickly replaced by a rush of pleasure.

The contact is electric, sending a surge of adrenaline through me. I gasp, my eyes flying open. He uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth.

I’m powerless to stop him.

My thoughts fragment. Professional distance. Ethical boundaries. Years of training that demand clinical detachment. All of it crumbles against the brutal intimacy of his mouth.

“Kiss me back, Geneva.”

His command is a whisper against my lips, a sensual demand that has me wanting to obey. He slowly traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. Now coaxing instead of taking.

And I surrender.

It’s a sigh. The softening of my body. The tightening of my grip on him.

I’ve studied Ghost for months. Analyzed every file, every report. I know the body pressed against me is a weapon. Trained. Lethal. Scarred. Each ridge and plane a testament to violence. I should be repulsed, but I’m enraptured.

Ghost releases his grip on my neck to place his palms against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. All the while, he never stops his sensual assault on my mouth, even as the chain links from his cuffs press against my throat. Those same chains were just used to take a life, but now they’re on my skin, breathing life into me.

No longer a threat, but a thirst for more.

I kiss him back.

His touch changes at my response. It’s not just conquering, but something more unhinged. More desperate.

I whisper his name, overwhelmed by him. Ghost swallows the tiny sound, pulling my breath into his body. A tremor runs through him, followed by a groan of pure ecstasy that has me shaking as well.

His lips curl, but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something darker and devious. Something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

To us.

He pulls back, allowing me to breathe as he trails lips along my jaw. Teeth scrape against my pulse point. Not quite biting. Not quite breaking skin. But promising that he could. That he might.

I try to stifle a moan, but I’m unsuccessful. It flows from my throat, liquid and sultry, like the dampness flowing from my pussy. Ghost freezes, his lips on my throat, his teeth testing my skin. He inhales deep and my face blooms with the heat of my embarrassment.

“I smell magnolia and pussy,” he murmurs.

Something shifts. Breaks. His façade shattering.

No more calculated precision.

No more meticulous control.

Just raw need.

He drops his hands and shoves one between my thighs to grip me, and I’m shocked by my own response as my legs instinctively spread for him. The wall is cold against my back. His body is fire. Burning. Consuming.

His touch is rough, almost brutal. Like he knows I won’t break. Like he knows I can take whatever he has to give. He sweeps his thumb across the crotch of my leggings, the material chafing against my sensitive flesh. The friction makes me groan.

“Fuck, Geneva. You’re soaking wet.”

His words only make the ache worse.

He presses his palm against my mound, the pressure deliciously maddening. His other hand grips my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh. I can feel the strength in him, the power. Every flex of his hand could end my life. The knowledge makes me euphoric.

Eyes closed, I arch into him, grinding against his palm, desperate for more. He responds with a growl, the sound low and primal as it sweeps past my ears and straight between my thighs.

I don’t care if this is wrong. I don’t care that he’s a murderer. A psychopath. All I care about is how he makes me feel.

Sexy.

Seen.

Safe.

Things I’ve never felt before, all at once.

CHAPTER 32

My eyes fly open when Ghost snatches my wrist and moves my hand to rest on his cock. Damn. Even through his pants, I can tell he’s huge. Thick and hard, straining against the fabric. Pulsing against my palm.