Mafia's touch

Her back hit the wall with a thud, the air catching in her throat. Before she could speak, Zayne’s body pinned hers, one hand gripping her jaw, the other locked around her waist like a chain. His breath was hot against her lips, but his eyes—dark, hungry, merciless—spoke of sin. "You keep running, Inspector," he growled, his voice deep, low, sinful. "But I’ll always find you. And when I do…” His tongue grazed her earlobe, slow and deliberate. “I don’t just want to hear you beg—I want to ruin you.” Priya’s breath caught. He smirked against her skin, feeling the way she trembled under him. “I'll have you gasping my name... legs shaking, nails digging into my back. Not once. Not twice. But until you forget you ever hated me.” She tried to push him away, but her hands betrayed her, curling into his shirt instead. "I’ll make you feel it,” he whispered. “Every inch of me… inside you, claiming you. Till you forget the badge, the pride, the pain.” “Zayne—” she breathed. “You’ll scream,” he whispered, biting her lower lip. “Not in fear. Not in pain. But because I’ll make you like I own you.” “And you’ll love every second of it.”