I should mind my own business. I should absolutely mind my own business. But I’m me, so I don’t.
I peer in.
And I wish I hadn’t.
James has Sam pinned against the wall, face pressed hard into the paintwork.
This isn’t regular, romantic sex.
This is aggressive, relentless.
James’s arm snakes up around Sam’s throat, forcing his head back in a chokehold. Sam’s face is flushed, straining, his gasps rasping through the air. James doesn’t loosen his grip. His thrusts are sharp, punishing, each one punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin.
Then, James breaks away from the wall, and tosses Sam onto his back on the bed, like he’s a ragdoll, and continues deep and hard inside him. James’s hand wraps tight around Sam’s throat, the other pinning him down by the chest. Sam claws at James’s wrist, but James is stronger, his hips driving harder, faster.
As James’s aggressive thrusts continue, he removes his hand from Sam’s chest and slaps him hard across his face.
The sound is vicious, enough to make my stomach lurch.
Another slap, like a whip has cracked.
Then another.
James removes his hand from around Sam’s throat, as the room fills with Sam’s gasps desperately. But before he can catch his breath, James grabs a pillow, pressing it down over Sam’s face as he thrusts, the sound of his breathing turning ragged, animalistic, almost a roar as he nears his climax.
I can’t move. I just… watch.
James presses the pillow over Sam’s face, while looking up to the ceiling, his moans sounding more like battle cries as he finishes with a ferocious, final thrust.
When he’s done, he pulls the pillow away. Sam gasps desperately, sucking in air like he’s been underwater.
But before he can catch his breath, in one last vicious act, James grabs him by his waist and physically shoves him off the bed entirely. Sam hits the floor with a grunt, a heap of limbs and sweat.
“Sleep somewhere else,” James says, wiping sweat from his brow.
Sam doesn’t move, just lies there, chest heaving, as James walks into the ensuite, door swinging shut behind him.
I stumble back from the doorway, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s in my throat.
Back in Pete’s room, I slide under the duvet as quietly as I can, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, pulse still racing.
James isn’t just brooding.
Or complicated.
He’s dangerous.
Chapter 21
JAMES
James grips the edges of the sink, breath ragged.
The porcelain is cool beneath his palms, grounding him in the way nothing else can. His reflection stares back from the mirror—sweat-slick skin, pupils still wide, jaw locked tight.
He doesn’t look ashamed.
He looks alive.
