Chapter Eight
Sloane
The world disappears. There is no cliff, no contract, and no mother in a hospital bed. There is only the crushing weight of Vane Sterling and the terrifying realization that I have been waiting for him to catch me.
He tastes like smoke and expensive Scotch. He tastes like power.
His hands are everywhere—on my waist, in my hair, grounding me even as he destroys me. He carries me away from the edge, back toward the shadows of the stone gazebo, his body a heavy, demanding presence that brooks no refusal.
"You lost the hunt, Sloane," he whispers against my skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of my neck. "Do you know what that means?"
"The penalty," I gasp, my head falling back, my eyes fixed on the cold, indifferent stars as his hand slides beneath the shredded silk of my skirt. When he finds me, I'm already traitorously slick. He tests my readiness with a blunt, demanding pressure that makes my knees buckle.
"The penalty," he confirms. "But we're going to start it now. I want you to remember that out here, there is no one to hear you. No one to save you from the choice you made."
He pulls back just enough to discard the leather of his belt, the sound of the buckle hitting the stone sharp like a gunshot. I shiver as I feel the heat of him against my entrance—unyielding and massive. Before I can draw another breath, he claims me in one sudden, deep thrust that anchors me to the bench.
He isn't looking for my comfort; he is looking for my truth. He moves with a slow, agonizing rhythm, watching my face as the pleasure begins to override the shame.
I hate him. I hate the way he knows exactly how to break me. I hate the way he uses my own body as a weapon against my pride. But as he leans down, his forehead resting against mine, I see it. For a split second, the "ice" in his eyes isn't cold. It's burning.
"Tell me," he rasps, his voice thick with a rare, raw emotion. "Tell me you're mine, Sloane. Not because of the contract. Not because of the money. Say it."
I bite my lip, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I won't say it. I can't. If I say it, I lose the last piece of myself I have left.
"I am... an asset," I whisper, the lie sounding hollow even to me.
Vane growls, his grip on my hips tightening until it hurts. "We'll see, Sloane. We have forty-eight hours left in this house. By the time we drive back to the city, I'll have your heart on my desk along with the Zurich files."
He moves faster then, driving us both toward a peak that feels like falling off the cliff for real. And as the waves crash below us, I realize the most terrifying thing of all:I don't want to be saved.