In a blink, he’s straddling me, pinning me beneath the solid weight of his body. Sweat drips from his jaw onto my chest, hot and tangible, while his breath stays maddeningly steady as mine tears ragged from my lungs.
And then—his shirt is gone, stripped off in one fluid motion and tossed aside without care.
My breath hitches. My eyes rake over him, greedily drinking in every inch—the broad planes of his chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the tattooed ink stretched over taut, sweat-slick muscle. The way his arms flex when he pins me harder to the mat. Heat and shadow, power and want—that’s what he is, hovering over me, and my body responds before my mind can catch up.
The gym hums with silence, the fluorescents buzzing overhead in a steady rhythm like a pulse. My world narrows to this: the weight of him above me, the feeling of his sweat sliding where our bodies nearly touch, the uneven drag of my own breath breaking apart in my chest.
My hands twitch against the mat, restless, itching to grab hold of him. His stare pins me even harder than his body, those molten eyes daring me to break.
“Are you waiting for permission?” His voice drops low, smooth and dangerous, threaded with challenge.
Heat spikes through me, sharp and unstable. I bare my teeth, trying to sound sharp, but the words falter, coming out softer than I mean them. “You’ve got me pinned, asshole. What do you want me to do—sprout wings?”
His smirk curves, slow and devastating, like a fuse catching fire. “I want you to prove me wrong. Show me you can take control—even when you don’t have any.”
I twist under him, trying to buck him off, but his weight shifts with mine, relentless. His thigh slides between mine, grazing where I’m already throbbing. The accidental touch sends sparks ripping through me, white-hot, and my breath stutters. His eyes sharpen, darkening like he felt it too.
The silence thickens. The hum of the lights overhead grows louder, every sound sharper, every breath deeper. My pulse thrums so fast it drowns out all thought, too loud in my ears. He’s so close that the heat rolling off him licks across my skin in waves, suffocating and intoxicating.
“Still think this isn’t necessary?” he murmurs, dipping until his lips hover a whisper from mine. His breath is hot, taunting, close enough to taste.
I should shove him off. I should spit out some smart remark. But I don’t. My hands betray me, sliding up, palms skimming the ridges of his abs, tracing the taut muscle under sweat-slick skin.My fingertips tremble, but I can’t stop. His abdomen tightens under my touch, his jaw flexing as his eyes blaze, hungry and raw.
The tension snaps.
His mouth crashes onto mine, all heat and teeth and desperate hunger. The kiss is savage, consuming, like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that could sate him. His tongue tangles with mine, fierce and demanding, and I meet it with equal fire, fisting his dampened hair to drag him closer.
He groans, guttural, the sound vibrating through me as his hips grind down, his cock pressing hard against my core through his shorts. The pressure is unbearable, perfect, and I writhe beneath him, every nerve lit.
I gasp into his mouth, tasting salt, heat, and something purely him, arching into him with greedy desperation. His hands are everywhere—rough, certain, claiming. They slide up the flat of my stomach and grip my waist hard enough to leave bruises. He tugs at the hem of my shirt until the fabric peels away, sticky with sweat. Inch by inch, he bares me, impatient, until the shirt’s gone completely and I’m left raw under his stare. His calloused fingers slip beneath my sports bra, searing hot against damp skin, and I bite back a moan when his thumb skims the underside of my breast.
“Emilio—” His name tears from me, pleading, breathless.
He doesn’t give me the chance to say more. His mouth abandons mine to trail fire down my throat, biting, sucking until sharp pain blooms into aching pleasure. His hand cups me through the bra, squeezing hard, before he shoves the fabric aside and takes my nipple into his mouth. The scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet drag of his tongue, is unbearable in the best way, and a strangled cry rips free before I can stop it.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps when he finally lets go, my nipple slipping wet from between his lips. His voice is shredded withneed, ragged like it’s costing him to hold himself back. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”
My hands fumble desperately at his waistband, trembling with urgency. But he beats me to it—shoving his shorts down far enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and hard, pre-cum already slick at the tip. My hand closes around him instinctively, stroking, marveling at the heat and thickness. His body shudders, his groan rumbling low in his chest.
His gaze drags down the length of me sprawled beneath him, then back up, hot and hungry. But something sharper flickers in his expression, darker.
He moves before I can think. One hand clamps around my wrists, pinning them above my head, the other snatches up my discarded shirt. In a single rough motion, he bunches the damp fabric and presses it hard against my mouth, stuffing it between my lips until my protest comes out muffled.
His eyes blaze, feral and possessive as he growls, low against my ear, “Your screams are mine and mine only. No one else gets to hear them. Not here. Not ever.”
The words hit harder than his grip, raw and absolute. The shirt muffles my gasp, turns it ragged, and somehow makes the fire inside me burn hotter. My body writhes under him, caught between desperation and surrender, and he feels it all.
His free hand yanks my shorts down in one brutal sweep, baring me to the cool air. He shifts, the swollen head of his cock dragging through my folds, smearing my slick arousal. Teasing, testing. I buck up instinctively, seeking more, but he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my spine.
“Yeah,” he rasps, pressing just enough to make me whimper into the gag. “That’s it. Beg me without words. Show me how bad you need it.”
I writhe against him, the gag swallowing the sounds I want to make. My body does the pleading for me—hips snappingupward, thighs trembling, nails clawing at the back of his hands as if I can force him deeper. He only presses the head harder against my entrance, circling cruelly slow, never breaking through. Each brush makes me hotter, needier, until frustration burns through me like a fever.
“Good girl,” he growls, and then with one savage thrust, he buries himself to the hilt.
The stretch is sharp, exquisite, splitting me wide. My scream tears into the fabric gag, muffled and raw, my nails biting into his trapped hand. His cock fills me perfectly, painfully good, and every nerve in my body lights.
“Fuck,” he snarls, forehead pressed to mine, his grip punishing on my hip. “You feel so fucking good—so tight.”
