Page 57 of Monk

“You think you can just waltz into her life now?” I demanded. “After seven years? You think you can just claim her like she’s some prize you won?”

“She’s my daughter!”

“And I’m her mother!” I shouted. “And I say you don’t get to meet her. Not after what you’ve done. Not after how you’ve treated me.”

His eyes flashed with fury. “I don’t give a fuck about Ruby,” he growled. “I don’t give a fuck about any of them. The only woman I’ve ever given a damn about is standing right in front of me.” The words landed somewhere deep and ruined, and I hated that they still could.

“Then you should have acted like it,” I said, my voice shaking.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice fierce and absolute. “And I will meet my daughter. Whether you like it or not.” I stared at him, heart hammering, grief and fury tearing through me all over again.

“No,” I said, my voice hard. “You won’t.”

Something in him snapped.

I saw it in his eyes. The moment his control shattered completely.

He grabbed me roughly, his hands gripping my arms as he hauled me backward until my back slammed against the wall. “John!”

His mouth crashed down on mine, brutal and possessive and overwhelming.

I gasped against his lips, my hands instinctively shoving against his chest, but he didn’t budge as he kissed me like a man starving, like he had been drowning and I was air, like he would die if he didn’t have me right this second. His tongue forced its way past my lips, claiming my mouth with a desperation that made my knees weak.

I tried to resist. Tried to shove him away, but my body betrayed me as my hands stopped pushing and started gripping, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I kissed him back just as fiercely.

Seven years. Seven years of longing and rage and need came crashing down on us both.

His hands slid from my arms to my waist, gripping me so tightly I knew I would have bruises, and I didn’t care. I kissed him back with everything I had. All the anger, all the pain, all the love I had tried so hard to bury.

When he finally pulled back, we were both gasping for air, our foreheads pressed together, our bodies trembling. “You’re mine,” he growled against my lips. “You’ve always been mine. And I’m not letting you go. Not again.”

I stared up at him, my heart pounding, my mind spinning because, despite everything, despite the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, I knew he was right.

I had always been his.

And God help me, I always would be.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lina

His mouth crashed down on mine again before I could think, before I could breathe, before I could remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea. His hands were everywhere, rough, demanding, claiming every inch of me like he was trying to burn the memory of my body into his palms all over again.

I should have stopped him. Should have shoved him away and walked out of this room with whatever dignity I had left, but I didn’t because my body remembered him in ways my mind had tried desperately to forget. The way his calloused hands felt dragging across my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The way his mouth tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and something dark and uniquelyhim, something that made my pussy clench with need. The way his body fit against mine like we were two pieces of the same broken, fucked-up thing.

“Fuck,” he growled against my lips, his hands sliding under my shirt, his rough palms scraping against my bare skin hard enough to make me gasp. “Seven years, Lina. Seven motherfucking years and you still feel like heaven.” His voice was raw, broken, filled with a desperation that matched the ache between my thighs.

I gasped as his hands found my breasts, squeezing hard enough to make me arch into him, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin lace of my bra. “John.”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through my chest. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want me to fuck you right here, right now. Unless you want me to bend you over this bed and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

My breath hitched, my thighs clenching together involuntarily.

I should have been offended. Should have slapped him and told him to go to hell, but instead, I felt heat pool low in my belly, felt my pussy getting wet, my body responding to the filthy threat in his voice like it was a promise I had been waiting seven years to hear. “I hate you,” I whispered, even as my hands slid under his shirt, my fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle I remembered so well, feeling the way they flexed and tensed under my touch.

“I know,” he said, his mouth moving to my neck, his teeth scraping against my pulse point hard enough to leave a mark. “Hate me all you want, baby. But you’re still mine. This body is still mine. This pussy is still mine.”

He ripped my blouse apart in one rough motion before yanking off my blazer and what remained of my shirt, tossing them aside without looking. His eyes raked over me, dark and hungry and feral, taking in every inch of exposed skin like he was starving and I was the only meal he’d ever need. “Fuck,” he breathed, his voice thick. “Look at you. Look at these perfect fucking tits.”