“You think this is a fantasy?” he says, voice gravel and grit and heat. “Think again, Eliza.”
I moan, high and broken.
He drives into me without apology, without hesitation, his grip iron at my hips, keeping me braced and open for every brutal, claiming thrust. There’s nothing calculated or cautious in the way he moves—just raw male force, anchored by a will honedthrough combat and silence and years of never needing anyone. Until now.
Until me.
He fucks like he bleeds—without complaint. Without fear. Like the pain in his shoulder doesn’t matter. Like the whole goddamn tunnel could collapse around us and he wouldn’t stop until I was wrung dry, aching and soaked in the truth of what he does to me.
He pounds deeper, hips slamming into the curve of my ass as I cry out, high and wrecked. My thighs shake. My jaw clenches. I want to crawl away from the overwhelming flood of sensation, and I want to crawl back to him at the same time. He leaves no room for thought, no room for control, just the relentless rhythm of a man using me the way I begged to be used—without permission. Without mercy.
“You feel that?” he growls, his breath hot against the nape of my neck. “This is what happens when you let a man like me in. I don’t stop until you can’t fucking walk.”
His fingers slide between my thighs. Find my clit. And the cry that tears from me is nearly animalistic, my body locking around him as he drags me toward another climax—not tender, not sweet, but brutal and full-bodied and earned.
“You’re mine now,” he snarls, and I swear I can feel it in my bones. “Not because I said so. Because your body fucking decided.”
He fucks me through it, doesn’t let me come down, not even for breath. His rhythm is unforgiving, deep and ruthless and perfect. Every thrust is an answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking. Every snap of his hips says, this is who I am, and I believe it. I believe him.
I brace against the chair, my voice gone, my body raw, and still I want more. Still, I push back into him like I need to be wrecked to be made wholeagain.
And when I come—again—it’s not an orgasm. It’s annihilation. A total obliteration of thought, of time, of the line between fantasy and reality. My body convulses, wrung out and taken. Not held. Not coddled. Claimed.
He follows with a roar that feels more like a release of war than of pleasure, his hands branding my hips as he buries himself one final time and spills inside me.
We don’t move.
Can’t.
The only sound is the echo of our breathing and the hollow hum of the tunnel lights above, flickering with their own warning rhythm.
He’s still inside me when he lowers his forehead to my back, his weight draping over me, solid and trembling. Not from weakness. From restraint. The kind it takes to hold back everything he could’ve done—and didn’t.
And that, more than anything, undoes me.
Because he could’ve destroyed me.
But he didn’t.
He gave me exactly what I asked for.
What I’ve always needed.
And for the first time, I understand the difference between being used—and being wanted.
We stay like that—pressed together, limbs tangled, breath shallow in the heavy silence of the room. His chest is damp against my back, each exhale a hard-won drag of air. The concrete floor beneath my knees is unforgiving, my thighs tremble from strain, and I’m still slick and open where he left me—taken and held in a way that feels, not undone exactly, but rewritten.
His cock softens inside me, then slips free, and I nearly flinch at the loss. He exhales roughly, the sound more animal than man, and I feel the effort in his body as he straightens,already bracing against the pain his shoulder must be screaming.
He doesn’t speak. Just lets his hand slide over my lower back, then up to my spine, steady and grounding. I start to turn toward him, but he beats me to it—gently drawing me upright, his hand still firm at my waist. My legs feel wobbly, my skin flushed, clothes scattered on the floor behind me.
“Get dressed,” he murmurs, voice low and frayed at the edges. “You’ll freeze.”
The words land like a snap of cold air across my skin. Not unkind. Just real. Just Cooper. Practical. Protecting me in the only ways he knows how.
I nod, cheeks hot, and turn to gather my clothes. My hands tremble a little, not from embarrassment, but from the echo of what we just did—the force of it still humming through every nerve. I pull my shirt over my head, tug on my underwear, my jeans. He watches without comment, his gaze steady but unreadable. Not possessive. Not soft. Just there.
When I finish dressing, he moves. Carefully, with a wince and a hiss that tells me how much more pain he’s in than he’s letting on. His bare chest is still streaked with sweat and dried blood, the makeshift bandage on his shoulder darkening at the edge. He’s holding himself stiff, but his eyes never leave me.
