His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 145

Olive’s POV

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was possession and fury and almost two weeks of silence all wrapped into one devastating assault on my senses.

His mouth claimed mine like he was trying to prove a point, his hand fisted in my hair hard enough to make my scalp sting, and I didn’t care because I was kissing him back just as desperately, my hands grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer even though there was no space left between us.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss Zane Mercer.

Or maybe I’d convinced myself over the last two weeks that my hemory was exaggerated, that nothing could actually feel this intense, this consuming.

But I’d been wrong.

So fucking wrong.

His tongue swept into my mouth and I made a sound I’d never made before-something between a moan and a whimper that should’ve been embarrassing except he swallowed it, groaning against my lips like that sound was everything he’d needed to hear.

“Two weeks,” he growled against my mouth between kisses. “Two fucking weeks of torture.”

He walked me backward and I stumbled in my heels, would’ve fallen if his arm hadn’t locked around my waist, holding me up while he kept kissing me like he was trying to consume me whole.

My back hit the wall.

His body pressed against mine, all hard muscle and heat and barely controlled violence, and I could feel every inch of him -the tension in his shoulders, the rapid beat of his heart, the very obvious evidence of what kissing me was doing to him pressed against my stomach.

“Never again,” he said, his lips moving to my jaw, my neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks that I’d have to explain tomorrow. “You don’t get to ignore me like that ever again.”

“I’m sorry-” I gasped as his teeth found that spot behind my ear that made my knees weak.

Every rational thoughts of Judy and his obsession with my past rumbling down through the surface.

“I don’t want your apologies.” His hand slid down my side, bunching the fabric of my dress in his fist. “I want your submission.”

The word should’ve made me pull back. Should’ve triggered every feminist instinct I had about not letting men control me.

Instead it sent heat flooding between my thighs so intense I had o clench them together.

“Zane-”

“Tell me you’re mine.” His hand found the slit in my dress, fingers sliding up my bare thigh with agonizing slowness. “Say it.”

“I’m-“The words caught when his fingers brushed the edge of my underwear.

“Say it, Olive.” His voice was rough, demanding. “Or I stop right here and walk away.”

He wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t.

But the threat was enough to make panic surge through me because I needed this, needed him, needed to feel something other than the emptiness that had been consuming me for almost two weeks.

“I’m yours,” I gasped out. “I’m yours, okay? I’m-fuck—”

His fingers slipped under the fabric of my underwear and found me already wet and aching.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed against my neck. “You’re soaked.”

I should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve had some witty comeback about how it had been almost two weeks and my boa had needs.

But all I could do was moan as his fingers moved against me, circling and teasing but not giving me what I needed.

“Did you think about me?” he asked, his voice dark and dangerous in my ear. “When you were on that date with him, did you

think about me?”

“Yes,” I admitted, past the point of lying. “I thought about you.”

“Did you think about this?” His fingers moved faster, building pressure that made my hips buck against his hand. “About me touching you like this?”

“Yes-”

“Did you think about me fucking you?” He bit down on my neck hard enough to make me cry out. “About me making you scream my name?”

I couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe past the pleasure building in my core.

But he didn’t need an answer because he could feel it-could feel how close I was already, how two weeks without him had left me desperate and aching.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with dark satisfaction.

And then he pulled his hand away.

I actually whimpered at the loss, my eyes flying open to find him watching me with an expression that was equal parts fury and lust.

“Bedroom,” he commanded. “Now.”

I should’ve argued. Should’ve told him he didn’t get to order me around.

But my body was already moving, already heading toward my bedroom on shaking legs while he followed close behind.

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