CHAPTER 13 – Leona
Fury follows me from the study like a gathering storm. I pace the master suite, still seething from Marcus's arrogance. The nerve of that man—showing me that breathtaking view, creating a moment of genuine connection, then walking away when the tension between us peaked.
A power play. Everything with him is a damn power play.
I kick off my heels, sending them flying across the room. One hits a decorative vase, tipping it precariously before it settles back into place. Even my anger can't seem to make a dent in Marcus Drake's perfectly ordered world.
"Attempting property damage now?" His voice comes from the doorway, amused rather than annoyed. "If you're looking to destroy something valuable, I'd suggest the Degas in the study. Insurance would cover it, and frankly, I've never liked it."
I whirl to face him. "Do you think this is funny?"
"I find humor in unexpected places." He leans against the doorframe, his posture relaxed despite the tension crackling between us.
"I'm glad I could provide the evening's entertainment," I snap, yanking at the clasp of my necklace. The delicate chain breaks, sending diamonds cascading to the floor. "Oops."
Rather than anger, his face shows something like appreciation. "Five thousand dollars scattered across imported marble. Your rebellion is getting expensive."
"Send me a bill."
"I'd rather watch you pick them up." He crosses his arms, that infuriating half-smile playing at his lips. "On your knees would be preferable."
Heat floods my face—partly anger, partly something far more dangerous. "Get out."
"My bedroom, if you recall." He pushes off from the doorframe, stepping into the room. "Though I'm happy to share it with my wife, especially when she's in such a... spirited mood."
"I'm not in the mood for your games, Marcus."
"No?" He moves closer, his gaze dropping to my still-heaving chest. "What are you in the mood for, then?"
The question hangs in the air between us, charged with everything we've been dancing around for weeks. The attraction neither of us can deny. The push and pull that's become our daily rhythm. The inevitable collision course we've been on since the moment he brought me into his world.
"I want you to stop toying with me," I say finally, refusing to back away as he approaches. "You drag me up to that rooftop, you touch me, you make me feel—" I stop, swallowing hard. "And then you just walk away?"
"Ah." He stops within arm's reach, studying me like a fascinating puzzle. "You're not angry that I touched you. You're angry that I stopped."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant." His voice drops lower, that familiar rough edge sending a shiver down my spine. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I turn away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how right he is. "Just because we've shared a bed doesn't mean you know what I'm thinking."
"Doesn't it?" His fingers brush the nape of my neck, feather-light.
"I know how your breath changes when I touch you here.
" His hand slides to my waist. "I know how your pulse jumps when I stand too close.
" He turns me to face him, tilting my chin up.
"And I know exactly what you want right now, even if you're too stubborn to admit it. "
I should slap him. Should push him away. Should hold onto my anger like a shield.
Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward me.
Our mouths collide with bruising force. All the tension of the study, all the frustration of the past weeks pours into this single point of contact. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss as I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
He growls—actually growls—against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me like a physical touch. "Is this what you wanted on the rooftop?" he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "To lose control?"
"Shut up," I gasp, already working at the buttons of his shirt. "Just shut up for once."
He laughs, the sound dark and promising. "Make me."
I shove him backward toward the bed, surprising us both with my force. He allows it, a glint of appreciation in his eyes as the back of his knees hit the mattress. Before he can regain the advantage, I push him down, straddling him in one fluid motion.
"Look at you," he says, his hands settling on my hips. "My perfect, contained wife, finally letting the mask slip."
"I said shut up." I rip his shirt open, buttons scattering across silk sheets.
"Do you know how much this shirt cost?" His tone is conversational despite the heat in his eyes.
"Send me another bill." I lean down, capturing his mouth again, swallowing whatever smartass remark he was about to make.
His hands slide up my thighs, bunching my dress around my waist as I grind against him. The friction is exquisite torture, layers of fabric still separating us but doing nothing to disguise how much we both want this.
"I've never seen you like this," he says when I break the kiss to catch my breath. There's wonder in his voice, something almost reverent beneath the desire. "So raw. So honest."
"Don't analyze me." I reach between us, working at his belt. "Not now."
He captures my wrists, flipping our positions with a swift, controlled movement that leaves me breathless beneath him. "Patience, Leona." He pins my hands above my head, his weight a delicious pressure holding me in place. "We have all night."
"I don't want patience." I arch against his hold. "I don't want your control or your games. I just want—"
"Me." He finishes my sentence, his free hand sliding beneath my dress. "Just me. No pretense. No power plays." His fingers find bare skin, tracing patterns of fire along my inner thigh. "Say it."
Pride wars with need, fury with desire. I turn my face away, still fighting even as my body betrays me.
"Look at me." His voice is commanding but gentle. "Look at me and say what you want."
I meet his gaze, finding something unexpectedly vulnerable beneath his usual control. This isn't just about dominance or possession. This is about truth—his and mine.
"You," I whisper, the admission costing me more than he'll ever know. "I want you, Marcus."
Something shifts in his expression—triumph giving way to something deeper, more genuine. He releases my wrists, his hands now cradling my face with surprising tenderness.
"Finally," he murmurs, "something we can agree on."
His mouth finds mine again, the kiss different this time—still hungry but less frantic, as if we've crossed some invisible threshold. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands work my dress up and over my head, tossing it carelessly aside.
The cool air raises goosebumps across my skin, but his hands follow, warming everywhere they touch. His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts. When he reaches the lace edge of my bra, he looks up, eyes dark with want.
"Do you know how often I've thought about this?" His voice is a rough caress. "How often I've imagined you finally surrendering? Not because you had to, but because you couldn't bear not to?"
"Less talking," I manage, pulling him back to me. "More of this."
He laughs against my skin. "So demanding." His hand slides behind my back, unfastening my bra with practiced ease. "But I think I can oblige."
The bra joins my dress on the floor, and then his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling my nipple as his hand attends to the other.
I arch into the contact, a moan escaping before I can stop it.
His answering groan vibrates against my skin, the sound of a man dangerously close to losing the control he prizes so highly.
"I like that sound," he murmurs, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. "I want to hear it again."
His mouth moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach as his hands work at removing my remaining undergarments. When I'm completely bare beneath him, he stops, taking a moment to simply look at me.
"Beautiful," he says softly, and for once, there's no calculation in his voice. "Perfect."
I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful. Wanted. His gaze on my naked body isn't clinical or possessive—it's reverent.
I reach for him, pulling him back to me. "Your turn."
His clothes disappear piece by piece, revealing sculpted muscle and unexpected scars. I trace one along his ribs, a question in my touch.
"Knife," he explains briefly. "Prague. Six years ago."
Another across his shoulder.
"Bullet. Exit wound."
I kiss each mark, these physical records of the violence that shaped him. He watches me with an expression I can't quite place—wonder, perhaps, or surprise at this moment of tenderness amid our storm.
When we're both finally naked, skin against skin with nothing between us, he pauses above me. His eyes search mine, something calculating flickering behind them.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says, his voice rough with desire.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
He smiles— that dangerous, predatory smile that both terrifies and thrills me. Then, unexpectedly, he pulls away.
My body protests the sudden absence of his heat, of his weight. "What are you—"
Marcus steps back from the bed.
For a moment, I don’t understand. My body is throbbing with need, still echoing from those two words. But then I see the shift in his face—something sharp, calculating, dangerous.
He walks toward the shadows of the room, stark naked in all his glory.
“Let’s have some fun,” he says quietly. “Let’s pretend I’m not your husband tonight.”
My breath hitches.
He steps closer. His voice drops, low and dark. “Pretend I’m a stranger who slipped into your bedroom. And you’re alone… waiting.”
My body responds before my mind can catch up.
“Color?” he asks.
“Green,” I whisper.
I nod—once.
“This isn’t your room.”
I swallow hard, pulse racing. “Who are you?”