"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

His question makes me pause. "You killed me for the plank."

"Or did I just defend my own life?" he asks. "It's kill or be killed, so yes, Karissa, sometimes killing is justifiable."

"But I wasn't threatening you."

"Maybe not, but you were still a threat."

He stares at me pointedly. I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to think.

"It's irrelevant in this case, though," he says. "I'd give you the plank."

"Because you couldn't kill?"

"Because I couldn't kill you."

Those words should freak me out, and I do feel a tingle creep down my spine, but I get a strange thrill at the protectiveness in his voice. Every girl wants her very own Jack Dawson.

Slowly, I stroll over to him and climb onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. I wrap my arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes, drinking in the hint of emotion I find.

He's a whirlpool of darkness, and I feel myself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the depths of his abyss.

I'm drowning in him.

His hands run up my back as he pulls me to him for a kiss. I can feel him hardening, straining the crotch of his pants, heat rushing through me at the sensation. To know I have the same effect on him that he has on me is intoxicating. My fingertips tingle with the urge to touch him.

My hands drift down between us. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle for a second before he restrains me. I pull back and start to pout when he undoes his belt, making work of his button and zipper, before pulling me back to him for another kiss.

I don't waste my chance. The second he lets go, my hand slips into his pants and wraps around his cock. I pull it out between us, stroking it as I kiss him back with everything in me.

He's warm, so damn warm. I can feel him growing in my palm, hardening like concrete. My thumb grazes the head, feeling the bead of wetness. I suddenly want to taste it, run my tongue along the slit and take him in my mouth, but he doesn't give me the chance.

He grasps my hips, pulling me toward him, grinding himself against me. "Let me inside of you."

The words make me shiver.

I don't undress, slipping the skimpy fabric of my thong aside, grateful I wore this damn dress, after all. I lift up and sink down onto him, my eyes rolling in the back of my head.

I shift my hips, kissing him deeply, savoring every second he's inside of me. It's unlike any other time, a stolen moment of passion, no rushing for the finish line or desperately jumping hurdles, merely enjoying being in the race. My hands seek out his, our fingers entwining, as he presses them against his chest.

It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. Fully clothed, I somehow feel completely exposed, sliced open and vulnerable, yet so, so valuable. The man could snap me like a twig, but he holds onto me like I'm the strong plank, like I'm that lifeline in the water, his means of survival, his only chance of rescue. He holds my hands so tightly my fingers ache, but his face looks relaxed, like he's not worried at all about drifting away.

He breaks the kiss as he tilts his head back, his eyes closed, his lips parted as he lets out a shaky breath. I kiss his mouth, his cheek, his scruffy chin, my lips traveling all over his face, exploring his skin. He doesn't move, doesn't do anything but squeeze my hands tighter, pressing them against him harder. It's like he's pulling me inside of him, and I can feel his pulse, his strong heartbeat, pounding in his chest.

He's a tornado of emotion I can't begin to understand, but I love it. I love him. And I know it when I look at him, seeing such serenity in his expression. I want every cell of him in every cell of me, because when he's inside of me, I feel beautiful. I feel strong. I feel like I know what love means.

Love means seeing the beauty in the ugly, the light in the dark, and accepting that even if the lights are off, and I can't see what's in front of me, there will be something there to guide my way. Love means turning yourself inside out, handing yourself over to somebody else, and trusting them… trusting them to touch you, to handle you, to bend you, but never, ever break what you give them.

And I love him.

Fuck, I love him.

"I love you." The words tumble from my lips as a strained whisper, a shuddering breath forced from me as the butterflies take flight in my stomach, constricting my chest until I can't fucking breathe.

His eyes slowly open to meet my gaze. He doesn't move—doesn't react—stares at me so hard it feels like he's eye-fucking my soul, like maybe he thought he heard me, but it couldn't have possibly been so.

So I say it again. "I love you."

The second time gets a reaction, his expression strained like he's fighting off a flinch. Before I can do anything else, he speaks quietly. "Don't say it unless you mean it."

"I love you," I say for the third time. "I lo—"

I'm cut off mid-word. Naz is up out of the seat with me clinging to him in shock. He roughly drops me on his desk, things digging into my back. Stepping between my legs, one hand clutches my hip to keep me in place as his other hand settles on my neck. He thrusts inside of me hard, and I gasp, the noise cut off when the hand around my throat squeezes.

My chest viciously burns when I try to inhale, pressure mounting inside of me. He fiercely thrusts into me again and again, not letting go of my neck. My vision blurs, time standing still, as his calloused fingers press against my jugular.