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This man has the power to break my fucking heart.

“Stay with me, Layla,” he growls, his hand wrapping around my throat as he starts to pound into me.

My mouth opens, eyes widen, and Mitchell’s gaze locks onto mine.

I don't look away. I let him see me.

All of me.

The woman beneath the reporter. The one who wants things she can't verify. The one who has somehow started imagining herself belonging somewhere.

With him.

“Fuck, that’s it. Let me in,” he grunts, rising to his knees and I swear he goes even deeper.

Touching me in places no one ever has. Making me feel things I’ve only read about in books.

Let me in.

Something about those words catches inside my chest.

Because this is Mitchell.

Because it's me.

Because somewhere between the first kiss and now, this stopped being only about our bodies.

His hands are on me.

Mine are on him.

We're tangled together so completely I don't know where I end and he begins, and still, somehow, I want closer.

I want more.

Not more pleasure.

More him.

That's what scares me.

“Mitchell.”

His name leaves me like a confession.

His gaze snaps to mine.

Those icy blue eyes are anything but cold.

They're burning.

Primal.

Focused.

Possessive.

But underneath all of that is something I haven't let myself look at too closely before.