"Honest." His thumb finds my nipple and whatever clever response I had dissolves into a sound I'll deny making later. "Big difference."
Manhattan spreads beneath us like diamonds someone scattered across black velvet. In the reflection of the glass, I can see us—his dark silhouette against my pale skin, city lights painting us in gold and shadow. We look like art. We look like a crime scene waiting to happen.
His hand slides between my thighs.
I'm already soaked. Have been since he walked into that Mexican courtyard five days ago, looking like he wanted to either kill me or fuck me. Nice to know we're finally picking an option.
His fingers find my center, sliding through slick heat, and the groan that escapes him vibrates against my throat.
"This wet already. All from thinking about me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." He circles my clit—light, teasing, nowhere near enough pressure. "I'm going to be thinking about this for months."
"Less thinking. More—" He pushes two fingers inside me and the sentence dies in a gasp. "—that. More of that."
He works me with the same precision he probably uses to dismantle people. Nothing wasted. Nothing random. His thumbpresses against my clit while his fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes my back arch off the glass.
The window is freezing against my spine. His body is a furnace against my front. It's too much and not enough and I'm already embarrassingly close.
"Look at you." His voice is gravel and smoke. "Falling apart on my fingers like you've been waiting for this."
"I have been." The words come out broken. "Five days of you staring at me like?—"
"Like what?" He curls his fingers harder, hitting that spot again, and my skull cracks back against the glass hard enough to make me see stars.
I don't care.
"Like you wanted to devour me."
"I do." His thumb presses harder and my vision goes white around the edges. "I want to take you apart piece by piece and put you back together wrong. I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want?—"
"Then stop fucking talking anddo it."
Something snaps behind his eyes. His fingers disappear and I'm about to protest when I hear fabric shove down and then he's there, thick and hot, pressing against my entrance.
"Last chance to run, Isabelle."
"I told you." I dig my heels into his ass, pulling him forward. "I don't run."
He drives inside me in one brutal thrust.
The sound that tears out of me is raw.
He's big. Thick enough that the stretch burns, long enough that I feel him everywhere. And he doesn't give me time to adjust. Doesn't ask if I'm okay, if it's too much, if I need him to slow down.
He just pulls back and slams home again so hard my head cracks against the glass.
Stars explode behind my eyes. The pain and pleasure blur together into something that doesn't have a name, something that makes my nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"Harder," I gasp.
So he gives me harder.
His fingers dig into my thighs like he's trying to leave fingerprints in my bones. Good. I want the bruises. Want to press on them tomorrow and remember exactly how reckless I was. How stupid. Howalive.
The glass rattles against my spine with each snap of his hips. My head knocks back—once, twice.
