He kisses me like whatever it was that stopped him at dinner taught him something raw about where to begin—with hunger, not hesitation. My mouth parts, craving the invasion of his tongue, the taste of him like smoke and restraint finally cracking. My hands go up as if they have nowhere else to go but him, fingers clawing into his shoulders, warm and solid under his thin cotton shirt. The scar under it is a jagged diagonal under my fingertips, the slope I remember from the gym, rough and raised like a map of old violence. His rain-wet hair drips cold onto my collarbone, mixing with the heat of his skin, and the scent of cedar clings to him—woodsy, sharp, and undercut by the musk of sweat from whatever hell he dragged himself through to get here.
He deepens the kiss with a pressure that makes my knees buckle, whispering filthy promises my throat hasn’t caught up to yet, my body already screaming for more. One of his hands slides down from my jaw to my shoulder, calluses scraping lightly, sending sparks down my spine.
The robe tie loosens where it was already half-assed, and he slides a thumb under the edge, silent but deliberate, his eyes locked on mine like he's daring me to back down. The robe obeys a gravity he didn’t need to force—it slips to my elbows and hangs there, a tangled mess of silk that exposes my paint-smudged skin, streaks of blue and black from the canvas I abandoned earlier, now smeared under his gaze. It makes more room for his hands, those surgeon-steady fingers, and less room for me to pretend I don’t want them everywhere, bruising, claiming.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs into my mouth, his voice a low growl that vibrates through my chest. It isn’t a disclaimer. It’s a check, raw and real, his breath hot against my lips.
“Don’t,” I answer, and hear how the word snaps out like a command, not a plea pulling him deeper into this storm I started by showing up at his door.
His hands find my wrists, gripping with that bruising force that sends a thrill of power through me, raising them above my head like a painter pinning a line exactly where it belongs, unmovable. The cold of the wall kisses my knuckles, plaster rough against my skin, and my fingers curl into it, nails scraping as I arch toward him.
The restraint is extreme, his hold like iron, but it's balanced by the murmur of his voice, that medic's calm threading through the hunger, reminding me I could shatter it with a word.
His mouth leaves mine, trailing fire down my jaw to the soft place under my ear, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp—fuck the cliché, it rips out of me anyway. He doesn’t leave marks the first time he sets his teeth on my skin; he waits, hovering, for my breath to hitch in yes, then bites harder, the sting blooming into heat that pools low in my belly. I hear a sound I haven’t made in years—a guttural moan that echoes off the walls—and it takes me a second to own it as mine, raw and unfiltered.
“Here,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet rasp against my pulse, and he slips his hand under my left wrist, easing the pressure to make sure I’m not grinding myself raw against the wall, no unnecessary bruises on his watch. It’s the medic in him, that careful edge, and it should piss me off that it flips a switch, making my cunt clench with need. It doesn’t. It floods me with heat, my knees going weak, thighs trembling.
He registers it instantly, the heel of his hand pressing firm against my hip, a correction as precise as any he made in the clinic, steadying me without apology, his grip bruising justenough to mark but balanced by the low hum of his voice in my ear, "I've got you."
“Look at me,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache, because I want to see what this costs him—the restraint cracking, the hunger unleashed.
He does, lifting his head, eyes meeting mine. His pupils are blown wide, darker than the dim light demands, swallowing the irises. The muscle along his jaw ticks once, twice, then stills, his breath ragged. He is not pretending this is anything other than what it is—raw need, power exchanged, no bullshit.
I wrap one leg around his thigh, hooking my heel into the back of his knee, pulling him closer. He catches my weight effortlessly, his body a wall of heat and muscle, and the robe slides lower, pooling at my waist like surrender.
The zipper on the black dress finally gives with the smallest noise, a metal exhale that sounds like relief, and his hand is there, firm on the fabric at first, then slipping under it, warmer and more certain, fingers tracing the edge of my lace panties before pushing them aside. I can’t hear the rain pounding outside anymore because the blood in my ears is a relentless drum, drowning everything but the slick sound of his touch and my own ragged breaths.
He has always used his hands like he means to save someone—precise, lifesaving; now he uses them like he means to ruin me for anyone else, no apologies for the wreckage. He maps me with his palms, rough and unyielding, and his mouth and teeth nipping at my collarbone, his tongue soothing the sting, like he’s memorizing a route he’s studied on faded maps and is only now allowed to fucking walk.
The scent of cedar and sweat intensifies as he presses closer, his body radiating heat. When he pins my wrists again with one hand, the grip tight enough to bruise tomorrow, I say "yes" without being asked, my voice a hiss of demand. Whenhe lets one wrist go to touch me deeper, fingers sliding into my wet heat, curling just right, my freed hand goes to his shoulder, fingers digging into muscle that tenses under my nails, screaming present, alive, mine in this moment.
He checks a third time—“Tell me if—” his voice rough, edged with that restraint he's barely holding.
I cut him off because I don’t need adult supervision, I need the thing I came here for—the raw edge and hunger. “More,” I snap, my tone biting. “Now. Fuck me with your fingers until I break.”
He listens. God, he listens the way he listened to that boy in the clinic, peeling back layers until yes shines through the assumptions. He doesn’t push me through anything; he takes me into it like a man who knows every corner of this dark room and doesn’t want to waste a second on pretense. His fingers thrust deeper, harder, thumb circling my clit with brutal precision, building the heat until it coils tight in my core, a storm ready to shatter.
The sensations are extreme—his grip on my wrist bruising, pain twisting into pleasure, his breath hot on my neck, scent of sweat and cedar filling my lungs. I have to make noise or choke on it, so I choose noise—a keening cry that rips from my throat. He swallows it against my mouth with a growl from his own chest, deep and primal, telling me I’m not a performance, I’m real, and I’m his undoing too.
When it breaks—God, fuck—the orgasm crashes over me like a wave, my cunt clenching around his fingers, knees buckling completely. The only reason I stay upright is his body pinning me, his hand on my hip anchoring me, the other at my jaw, fingers gentle now, murmuring “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” his voice balancing the bruise of his earlier grip, soft against the raw edge.
I don’t fade after. I sharpen, the aftershocks honing me like a blade, hungry to act, to take back some power. I pull him down by the throat, fingers wrapping around the tendon there with something like fury and something like gratitude twisted into the same fierce grip, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss.
“Your turn,” I say, in a voice I recognize from fights and from work—commanding, unyielding—and never from anything like this, this dark tangle of need. He hesitates for half a heartbeat, eyes flashing; then he laughs once, low and rough, like someone who just tripped over a wire he set himself, the sound vibrating under my palm. He brackets my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks, and kisses me like a man who stopped himself an hour ago and promised himself this reward.
I take him with my mouth because I can and I want to, dropping to my knees in one fluid motion, the robe tangling around my thighs like forgotten restraint. My hands yank at his belt, zipper rasping open, and I free his cock, hard and throbbing, the scent of him musky and urgent.
The ledger in my head needs lines that say I did this as much as it needs ones that say he did. I wrap my lips around him, tongue swirling, taking him deep until he hits the back of my throat, my paint-smudged fingers gripping his thighs, nails leaving half-moons in his skin. The sound he makes when I do is the same one he made when I said kiss me in the dining room—a choked groan that satisfies something primal in me I didn’t know was starving for.
I work him relentlessly, hollowing my cheeks, hand twisting at the base, tasting salt and heat, his hips bucking just enough to show his restraint fraying. His fingers tangle in my hair, not pulling, but guiding, his voice a ragged whisper aboveme, "Fuck, yes," balanced by the way he watches me, eyes dark with gratitude.
When he comes with a guttural curse, spilling hot cum down my throat, his body shuddering, we’re both against the wall, breathing like we ran a marathon through fire. He rests his forehead against mine, sweat-slick skin pressing close, the distance obliterated. The wall is cool behind my shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat between us, the robe halfway down my arms and trapped by my elbows like I’m still pretending I came here dressed for anything but this raw unraveling.
“Now you’re inside,” he says, voice roughened down to something honest and bone-tired, laced with that medic's care even now.
“I was already,” I whisper, because saying it out loud is the only way I’ll believe it tomorrow when I write it down, the words anchoring the truth.
We stay like that long enough for my heartbeat to remember it belongs to me, pounding steady in my chest. He unhooks my wrists from the wall one at a time, his touch gentle now, thumbs rubbing slow circles over the faint red marks there, easing the ache like he’s fixing something he would rather not have caused but doesn’t regret. The touch is careful, almost tender, and it makes my throat tight with something unnamed—vulnerability I didn’t ask for. I want to be mean to make it stop, snap at him to push away; I want to be kind to make it last, pull him closer into this fragile afterglow. Instead, I just breathe, letting the scents of cedar, sweat, and sex linger, the rain outside a distant drum against the window.
