“But I also—” I stop, trying to find the words. “I can’t pretend I don’t want this. Want you. Even when I’m furious with you.”
“Emma—”
“I need to say this.” I look up at him, and at this distance I can see every detail of his face. The scar from a burn on his cheek. The slight crook in his nose from a break that didn’t set right. The way he’s looking at me like I’m the fire in the center of his heart. “I don’t know what this is. Trauma. History. Something real. Something stupid. I can’t tell the difference right now—and I don’t even want to try.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You.” The word comes out small, a whisper. “I want you.”
“Swan.” His mouth crashes into mine, urgent and demanding. His hands are everywhere, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp into his mouth. He’s still fully dressed and I’m completely naked, the imbalance making me feel both vulnerable and powerful.
“You’re soaked,” I murmur against his lips, tugging at his wet shirt.
“So are you,” he says, his hand sliding down between my legs to prove his point.
I gasp as his fingers find me, my hips bucking up against his touch. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” His smile is pure sin. “But I like my version better.”
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. “Off. All of it. Now.”
He gets up just long enough to strip, peeling off his wet clothes with an efficiency that makes my mouth go dry. His body is a work of art—broad shoulders, muscular chest covered in ink, the cut of his hips leading down to where he’s already hard for me.
He climbs back onto the bed, covering my body with his, and the weight of him makes my breath catch. Solid. Real. Dangerous.
Maybe we should slow down and think about what this means, what happens after. But then he’s kissing me again and I can’t think at all, can only feel—his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the hard press of him against my thigh.
“I need you,” I whisper, and I hate how true it is. Hate that I sound desperate. Hate that I am.
“Yeah.” His voice is rough, possessive. “You do.”
NotI need you too. Just confirmation. Like he’s been waiting for me to admit it. And I hate that too. But somehow it makes me wetter.
He reaches between us, positioning himself, and when he pushes inside me I cry out—not from pain but from the overwhelming rightness of it. Like my body’s been waiting for this, for him, even while my brain was building escape routes.
“Fuck,” he groans against my neck. “Emma.”
He goes slow at first, torturously slow, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. I can see us in the ceiling mirror—my hair spread dark against the white pillow, his back muscles flexing with each controlled thrust, my legs wrapped around his waist like I’m trying to pull him deeper.
We look like we belong together.
The thought terrifies me.
“Faster,” I demand, digging my nails into his shoulders. “Stop holding back.”
“Swan.” His eyes are dark, dangerous. “You know I’ll hurt you.”
My breath catches. “You know I’ll take it.”
His laugh is low and wicked. Then his control snaps.
He drives into me harder, faster, one hand fisted painfully in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. The headboard slams against the wall with each bone-jolting thrust and I don’t care, can only meet him stroke for stroke as the pleasure and ache build.
“Look up,” he commands, his voice rough. “Watch.”
I do, catching our reflection in the mirror. The sight is obscene—my thighs spread wide, his hips pistoning fiercely between them, my breasts bouncing with the force of each impact. I’m transfixed.
“See that?” His breath is hot against my ear. “See how perfectly you take me? How your body opens up for mine?”
