“Malachi—no,” I try to shift away, but his grip on my hips tightens.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
“No.” My voice is sharp. Desperate. “Don’t fucking baby me.”
He lifts his head, frowning. “I’m not.”
“You are.” My voice cracks. “You’re looking at me like I matter. I don’t want that.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. He sees it now; the line I’m not ready to cross. Not yet.
“Fine,” he says, and that single word is a growl.
He stands, climbs back on the bed, and prowls toward me with the slow precision of a lion stalking its prey. Every movement is calculated. Predatory. He grabs one of my legs and lifts it so it’s draped across his shoulder. My eyes widen, but I don’t stop him because as much as I hate to admit it, this is fucking hot.
My pulse races, skin burning. This isn’t survival now. It’s surrender. And surrender feels no different than standing naked in the middle of a battlefield with no armor left.
The second his cock presses against my entrance, I gasp. He grabs my face in one hand, holding my stare as he thrusts in deep.
I cry out, nails digging into his back, but I don’t stop him. I need this. Need the pain wrapped in pleasure. Need him to fuck me hard enough to forget.
“Fuck,” he grits out, bracing a hand beside my head as he runs his lips from my shin to my ankle. “You feel like heaven and hell all at once.”
“Shut up,” I pant. I’ve never had sex like this before. It does feel like heaven and hell all at once, but I won’t admit that to him.
He pulls back slowly, then slams into me again. “Say you hate me.”
I bite my lip, lifting my other leg around him and digging it into his ass, which only makes him grin.
“Say it,” he growls.
“I hate you,” I breathe. “But not your dick.”
He laughs, low and wicked, and suddenly he pulls out. I start to protest, but he flips me before I can speak, slams me face-first into the bed, and lifts my hip. He grabs my hands and pulls them behind my back, then holds them with one hand while his other hand tangles in my hair.
“You like my dick, huh?” he snarls, lining himself up again. “You want it like this?”
He drives into me in one unforgiving stroke and I scream. Not in pain. In need.
“Fuck—yes,” I gasp, pressing back. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He fucks me in a way that means to brand it into my bones. The kind that says I’m his and this is the only way I’ll ever believe it.
The roughness makes it easier. Easier to ignore the tenderness he tried to give me.
He releases my hands as his hand wraps around to my stomach and slips between my legs again, rough fingers rubbing my clit, and I can feel myself unraveling, feel my legs begin to shake.
“Come for me,” he whispers, right by my ear. “Let go, Candace. Come all over me.”
“No—”
“Yeah. You want it. You’re so wet. So fucking tight.” He bites my shoulder, thrusting harder. “You were made for this. Made for me.”
“Fuck you,” I whimper, but it’s too late.
I come—shaking, cursing, pulsing around him—my cheek pressed into the bed and every nerve screaming. He follows with a guttural moan, spilling into me as his grip on my hip tightens, holding me still like I might disappear if he lets go.
We collapse on the bed, breathless. Sweaty. Sore. Shaken. His chest presses against my back, but he’s not too heavy. I actually enjoy the weight of him on me.
