The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets

Kendall leaned down. The sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder clung to his suit, layered over expensive cologne.

He reached out. His long, calloused fingers gripped Ansley's small chin, calluses scraping against her soft skin as he forced her face up to meet his eyes.

Ansley's vision swam. Her blood felt too hot, thick as syrup in her veins. But her eyes were still sharp, still burning with that feral defiance.

She swung her hand up and slapped his fingers away from her chin. The smack echoed loud and clean across the silent bar.

She gripped the edge of the counter and tried to stand. The moment her feet took her weight, her knees buckled like wet paper.

Kendall's arm shot out. He caught her around the waist, pulling her flush against his hard chest, his fingers splaying across the small of her back.

The second her body hit his, Kendall inhaled sharply. The distinct, crisp scent of citrus—bergamot and lemon peel, clean and bright—filled his lungs.

All his doubts vaporized. It was her. The woman he'd been relentlessly hunting, the phantom who had haunted his every waking moment for over a decade.

Ansley thrashed in his arms. She pushed her hands against his solid chest, her palms flattening against the hard wall of muscle. "Let me go, you psycho!" she slurred, her voice raspy and thick.

Hearing her voice—that voice—Kendall's eyes went pitch black. The last thread of restraint snapped.

He bent his knees, scooped her up behind the knees, and lifted her into his arms effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.

Ansley gasped. She beat her fists against his broad shoulders, the impacts useless and weak. People watched in stunned, frozen silence, but the terrifying, unspoken threat radiating from the wall of bodyguards kept everyone pinned to their spots.

The guards formed a tight wall, escorting Kendall to the VIP elevator at the back of the club. The crowd parted, not a single person brave enough to meet his eyes.

Kendall carried her inside. The metal doors slid shut, sealing them in humming, fluorescent silence.

Inside the small, enclosed space, Ansley's skin burned. Sweat beaded on her forehead and slid down her temples. Whatever Rocco had slipped into her drink was hitting its peak.

She writhed in his arms. Her hands stopped hitting him and started pulling at her own collar instead. She ripped the top buttons open, exposing the flushed, pale skin of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat glistening with sweat.

Kendall stared at her exposed skin. His Adam's apple bobbed hard. A dangerous, primal fire ignited in his gut, spreading like gasoline on a spark.

He grabbed her restless hands and pinned them against his chest, his grip an iron cage. "Stop moving," he warned, his voice a rough, shredded growl.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the private penthouse on the top floor—his penthouse, the one he kept for nights when he worked too late to drive home.

Kendall kicked the heavy wooden door open and strode inside, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors.

He walked straight to the bedroom and dropped her onto the massive king-sized bed. She bounced slightly on the soft mattress, her hair fanning out around her head like spilled ink.

He turned around and locked the door. The deadbolt slid home with a heavy, final click.

Kendall reached up with one hand and yanked his tie loose, the silk hissing through his collar. He shrugged off his suit jacket and let it drop to the floor in a heap.

On the bed, Ansley lost the last shred of her sanity. The heat was unbearable, a furnace under her skin. She needed an anchor—something solid, something real.

She scrambled to her knees on the mattress. Her soft arms reached out and wrapped tightly around Kendall's neck. She pulled him down, her strength surprising him.

Driven entirely by the chemical fire blazing through her veins, she pressed her lips against his. The kiss was clumsy, desperate, wet, and utterly artless.

That clumsy, desperate touch shattered Kendall's mind like a hammer through glass. Eleven years of obsession detonated all at once.

He grabbed her waist, flipped her onto her back in one fluid motion, and pinned her to the mattress. He took control of her mouth, devouring her with a hunger that bordered on violence, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise.

The room dissolved around them. There was only heat, and skin, and eleven years of hunger finally, catastrophically, satisfied.