THE VELOCITY OF FRICTION

CHAPTER 3

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a low, rhythmic glow, casting the safe house in shades of amber and deep shadow. Outside, the storm lashed against the glass, but inside, the air was stagnant and heavy with a different kind of electricity.

Spencer’s hands were still braced against the window, pinning Elena between the cold glass and the furnace of his body. The kiss had been a breaking point, a jagged release of all the control he had spent a decade perfecting.

"You should have taken the money," Spencer murmured against her skin, his voice a rough, primal vibration. His lips trailed a path of heat along her jawline, lingering just below her ear. "You should have run while you still had the chance."

Elena’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him back so she could look into his dark, hungry eyes. Her breath came in shallow hitches, her chest rising and falling against his. "I don’t run, Spencer. And I don't break. Did you think I was fragile?"

"I think you’re a match," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the erratic pulse in her throat. "And I think I’m covered in gasoline."

He didn't wait for a response. He lifted her easily, her silk dress bunching around her hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The contact was visceral—a shock of heat that made Elena gasp. He carried her toward the oversized leather armchair near the fire, never breaking eye contact.

When he sat, settling her straddling his lap, the power dynamic shifted. He was the one looking up now, his large hands sliding up her thighs, the friction of his palms against the silk making her skin tingle.

"Spencer," she breathed, her voice a mix of warning and want.

"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his thumbs grazing the lace edge of her underwear. His face was a mask of intense, focused desire. "Tell me this is just the adrenaline. Tell me you still hate me."

Elena leaned forward, her hair falling like a curtain around them, isolating them in a world made only of shadow and skin. She leaned in until her lips were a fraction of an inch from his. "I do hate you," she whispered, her hand sliding down to the opening of his shirt, feeling the frantic heat of his skin. "But I want this more."

The last of Spencer’s restraint snapped. His hands moved with a sudden, possessive urgency, sliding beneath the silk of her dress to find the curve of her waist. He pulled her down into a kiss that wasn't a negotiation—it was a claim. It was deep, demanding, and tasted of the bourbon he’d had earlier and the raw desperation of two people who knew that tomorrow might never come.

The world outside—the hitmen, the files, the scandal—ceased to exist. There was only the sound of the rain, the crackle of the dying fire, and the frantic, rhythmic heat of two enemies finally surrendering to the friction between them.

The Morning After...TO BE CONTINUED