The argument drops in volume but thickens, electric, filling the narrow space between us. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his chest rises and falls too fast. My back presses against a cool wall. His body fills the rest.
“But I’m done chasing thrills,” I say, voice low, daring him to push me further.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Too late,” he murmurs, stepping in until his chest brushes mine. “I’ve already claimed my trophy.”
The words hit like gasoline on fire.
My hand cracks across his cheek before I can think, hard enoughto snap his head sideways, leave a red mark blooming on his jaw. The sound echoes off the tiles.
He doesn’t flinch. He laughs. Low, dangerous.
“Do it again,” he says, crowding closer, “and I’ll think you mean it.”
I should leave.
Instead, I fist the front of his hoodie and yank him down, crashing my mouth against his.
It’s violence dressed as kissing, teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, his hands clamping my hips hard enough to bruise. I shove against his chest. He shoves back, pinning me to the wall. My coat falls open. His fingers rip at my shirt buttons. The storage door behind me rattles.
We stumble sideways, through the half-open door into darkness that smells of bleach and wet towels. Metal shelves clang as my shoulder hits one. Uniforms sway above us, plastic rustling. He kicks the door shut. The fluorescent buzzes to life overhead.
I tear at his hoodie zipper, nails scraping his collarbone. He growls something filthy against my throat and pushes my leggings to my knees, fingers rough between my thighs. No patience, no teasing. Just finding me wet and cursing under his breath.
“Already?” he says, smug, two fingers pushing inside roughly, curling just enough to make my knees buckle. “Knew you’d come begging for it, princess. So fucking wet for the help.”
“Fuck you,” I gasp, grinding down on his hand, thighs trembling, hating how my body betrays me, how much I need his fingers, his smug fucking voice, him. My hands shove his sweats lower, palming his cock through cotton, thick, rigid, twitching under my grip. “You love it. Poor Salzburg boy, finally gets his hands on something expensive.”
He laughs, low and filthy, ripping lace aside. His free hand fumbles his pocket, condom wrapper crinkling, teeth tearing foil, latex rolling down his length with a practiced snap that makes my mouth water. The interruption should kill it. It doesn’t. It makes my hips jerk forward, impatient.
“Expensive and easy,” he mutters, gripping my thigh, hiking it high around his hip. His eyes lock on mine, dark, possessive, triumphant, as the thick head of him nudges my entrance. “Let’s see how that pretty cunt takes champion’s cock.”
He thrusts up, sudden and brutal. My head snaps back against the shelf, clang, bottles rattling, my cry swallowed by rustling uniforms. He’s stretching me open, filling every aching inch until my nails gouge his shoulders through hoodie fabric.
“Fuck,” I hiss, “you think that’s impressive?”
His hips snap again, deeper, grinding against that spot that whites out my vision. “Keep talking shit,” he pants, breath scorching my jaw, “while I fuck you senseless on these shelves.”
I wrap my leg tighter, dragging him impossibly closer, pelvic bone slamming his. Our mouths crash, messy, biting, tongues slick and warring. I sink teeth into his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper. He groans, wrecked, and retaliates by palming my breast, thumb rolling my nipple viciously through silk.
“Greedy little princess,” he snarls against my throat, one hand braced by my head, the other bruising my ass. “Always acting too good for it, but your pussy’s crying for more.”
“Shut up and fuck me properly,” I bite back, rolling my hips to take him deeper, clenching around him deliberately. “Or are you saving yourself for the podium again?”
His rhythm stutters, turns punishing.
“Can’t fuck and race at the same time, huh?”
He growls, hips slamming forward so hard my teeth click. “That what you think, trophy girl?”
“Yes,” I lie through gritted teeth, raking my nails down his spine hard enough to leave red trails, feeling the shudder rip through his body. “Prove me, fuck, wrong.”
He makes an animal sound, half growl, half curse, and spins me around so fast my palms slap cold metal shelves, the sting shooting up my arms. Uniforms sway in front of my face, plastic crinkling like mocking whispers. His chest slams against my back, sweat-slick skin through thin fabric, one hand fisting my hair at the roots and yanking my head back. The other shoves my thighs apart, rough fingers digging into soft flesh.
No warning. He slams back inside me, brutal, balls-deep, the angle savage. My knees buckle. The shelf catches my weight. Each thrust rattles the entire unit, bottles clanking, metal groaning, detergent jugs wobbling like they might crash down on us. His hips slap mine so hard it burns, pubic bone grinding my ass, the wet smack obscene in the tight space.
I’m not his to take. I shove back, hips snapping, ass grinding against his pelvis, stealing control. My spine arches. I circle my hips filthy-slow, dragging him deeper, feeling every thick inch stretch me open. He stutters, grip loosening on my waist, hands slamming to the shelves on either side of me instead, bracing, yielding. Letting me fuck him.
“Fuck,” he rasps, wrecked, forehead dropping to my shoulder blade. “Perfect. Riding this perfect ass while you fuck me back like you own it.”
