The drill falls silent as he completes the final screw, his body turning toward you with predatory grace. In three strides he crosses the room, backing you against the wall before you can react. His hand slams against the plaster beside your head, forearm pressing against your throat with measured pressure.

"Two years," he growls, lips brushing your ear as his free hand trails down your side. "Two years of watching you play innocent while strangers could see every inch of what's mine through this window."

His knee forces your legs apart, pressing against your core as his fingers knot in your hair, yanking your head back. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and danger—floods your senses as his tongue flicks against your exposed neck.

"Did you enjoy the attention, little one?" His voice drops to a dangerous purr, grip tightening on your hair until you whimper. "Did you spread your legs for them too?"

You see the flicker of jealousy in his eyes before he crushes his lips against yours, a kiss that's more bite than affection. His free hand rips at your shirt, buttons scattering across the floor as his palm kneads your breast roughly.

"Don't lie," he snarls against your mouth, teeth grazing your lower lip until you taste blood. "I've seen everything. Every boyfriend who didn't deserve to touch you. Every night you touched yourself thinking no one was watching."

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers pushing past your underwear to find you already wet. A dark chuckle escapes him as he curls two fingers inside you, pumping roughly.

"You want this. Admit it. You want to be mine."

Your back arches involuntarily as he adds a third finger, his thumb circling your clit with brutal efficiency. His lips crash against yours again, swallowing your moans as his other hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your air just enough to make you dizzy with need.

"Say it," he commands, voice raw with desire. "Say you're mine."

He knows you will. He always gets what he wants.