Page 26 of Judge’s Obsession

“Move, Judge.”

His eyes search mine. Dark. Hungry. Barely leashed. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He kisses me, and this time I don’t close my eyes against it. I watch him. I watch his lashes flutter when he draws back the first inch, watch his breath catch when he sinks back in, slow and deep. I feel the exact moment his control frays—the small hitch in his rhythm when I lift my hips to meet him.

And I smile. Because I’m not afraid anymore.

He sees it. Something breaks open in his face.

“Little Mouse,” he whispers. “Now you’re mine in every way.”

The warmth starts low and spreads outward in slow waves. The stretch becomes friction. The friction becomes heat. I move with him, clumsy at first, then finding it—the rhythm, the angle, the way his pelvis grinds against me on every downstroke and lights me up from the inside.

His kisses turn demanding. Teeth catch my lower lip. Tongue claims my mouth the way the rest of him is claiming everything else. And I answer him. I bite back. I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs and pull him deeper and swallow the groan that punches out of him.

“Judge,” I whisper.

He brushes his lips over mine. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You. I want all of you.”

His smile turns wicked. Sharp enough to cut. “Careful what you ask for.”

I pull him into another kiss.

It’s the last soft thing he gives me for a while.

He shifts his weight, hooks one arm beneath my knee, and drags my leg up over his hip. Deeper. So much deeper. His hand fists in my hair, twisting the red strands around his knuckles the way I suspect he’s been wanting to since I collapsed on his porch, and he uses it to tilt my head back.

I cry out.

“That’s it,” he growls against my skin. “Let me hear you.”

The gentleness doesn’t disappear. It just goes somewhere underneath, a current running beneath the roughness. He’s still watching me—I can feel it even with my eyes rolling back—reading every flinch and gasp, adjusting, pushing exactly as far as I can take and not one inch further. His hips snap harder.

“Oh, God,” I moan.

His grip in my hair tightens. “You say my name when you come.”

“What?” I can barely form the word. “I⁠—”

“Dante.” He drives into me, hard, punctuating it. “Call out to me when I’m giving you pleasure.”

Dante.

For a moment, the whole world narrows down to that one word.

He’s given me something I hadn’t even known to ask for. Not Judge—the President, the man who puts fear in men twice my size with a look—but the man beneath the patches. The one who shook so he wouldn’t hurt me.

“Dante,” I whisper.

His expression changes. Something raw flickers across it, there and gone.

“Again, baby.”

“Dante.”