Roman’s hand slid higher along her thigh, his fingertips tracing slow, lazy patterns against the bare skin just below the hem of the shorts he’d given her to wear.
His touch burned — not with the fire of old passion, but with a feverish, wrong kind of heat that made her skin crawl even as she forced herself to stay still.
“You’re mine again,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against the side of her neck.
His breath was warm, his scent overwhelming — leather, smoke, and the unmistakable undercurrent of possessive need.
Dani squeezed her eyes shut for the briefest second, then opened them again, plastering a soft smile across her face.
Play along.
Buy time.
Survive.
She shifted slightly, pretending to adjust herself on the bed so his hand slid lower, toward her knee. Farth
