"I know." His thumb presses down. Parts my lips. "That's what makes it worse. You're not even trying. You're just... existing. And it's destroying me."
His other hand slides around to the back of my neck. Grips. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Possessive.
"I should let you go," he says. His eyes drop to my mouth. "Should walk away. Should be the bigger person."
"Then do it."
"I can't." The words sound torn from him. Raw. "I fucking can't. Not anymore."
Something in his expression shifts. Darkens. A decision made.
"Fuck it," he growls.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Brutal. Consuming. All tongue and teeth and desperation. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air. Like he's been starving and I'm the first meal he's seen in weeks.
I kiss him back just as desperately. My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
He bites my bottom lip. Hard enough to make me gasp. Uses the opening to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against mine, tasting, claiming.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"Last chance," he says. His voice is wrecked. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this."
I should. I know I should.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. The words stick in my throat.
"That's what I thought."
Something feral flashes in his eyes.
Before I can respond, he spins me around. My palms slam against the padded side of a weight bench. Cold leather under my hands. And then his body is behind mine, caging me in, one hand between my shoulder blades pushing me down.
"Zero—"
"Shut up." His voice is in my ear, hot and rough. "You didn’t stop me. So you're going to take it. Every. Fucking. Inch."
His hips grind against my ass and I feel him—hard, thick, pressing against me through layers of fabric. The friction sends electricity shooting up my spine. My cock is already hard, trapped between my body and the bench, and every movement makes it worse. Makes me throb. Makes me ache.
A sound escapes me that I don't recognize. Half gasp, half moan.
He does it again. Slower this time. Deliberate. Grinding his cock against me, letting me feel every inch of his length. The pressure. The promise of what's coming.
My hips buck involuntarily. Seeking. Wanting. My body betraying every rational thought in my head.
"That's right." His hand fists in my hair. Yanks my head back. "Feel what you do to me? How hard you make me?"
He grinds again and I whimper. Actually whimper. The sound humiliating and desperate and I can't stop it.
Heat pools low in my belly. My cock leaks in my pants. Everything is too sensitive. Too much. The drag of fabric. The pressure of his body. The way my pulse pounds between my legs.
"This is your fault," he growls. "Walking around looking like that. Smelling like that. Making me want things I shouldn't want."
His free hand slides around to my throat. Doesn't squeeze. Just holds. Claims.
"You think you're so innocent," he continues, voice dark and mocking. "So pure. But your body knows better, doesn't it? Your body knows exactly what it wants."
