It wasn't a kiss. It was an override command. And I surrendered to it.
He traced the seam of my mouth with his tongue and I opened for him, not giving a damn about the makeup I'd just done. I needed him more. We devoured each other until I was clawing at him with a desperation I wasn't sure I'd ever felt before.
"Wrap your legs," he growled against my mouth.
I obeyed instantly, my heels hooking behind his back. He drove his hips into mine, the hard ridge of him pressing against the juncture of my thighs through layers of fabric, grinding me into the marble edge. It was friction. It was gravity. It was the only thing in the world that felt real.
"Not enough," I panted.
He didn't bother with finesse. He shoved my skirt up, his rough, calloused hands finding skin, gripping my thighs with a bruising intensity that I welcomed. I needed the pain. I needed the pressure. I needed to know exactly where my edges were.
"Mateo, I need you," I gasped, tearing at his shirt. "Now. Hard. Just... shut it off."
The sound of his zipper barely registered over my thundering heart. A second later he tore my panties aside and shoved into me in one thrust.
I cried out, my head falling back, hitting the mirror with a dull thud. The vibration of it rattled my teeth. He filled me completely, stretching me, rooting me to the spot.
He began to move, a piston-like rhythm that shook the entire vanity.Thud. Thud. Thud.Every thrust was a declaration of existence.You are here. You are mine. You are real.
"Look at me," he ordered, grabbing my chin, forcing my head up.
I stared into his eyes. They were black pools of focus. No fear. No anxiety. Just him.
"You are Rowan fucking Quill," he grunted, driving deep, hitting that internal spot that bypassed my frontal lobe entirely. "You don't break."
"I... I..."
"Come for me," he commanded. "Burn it out."
He ground against my clit with the heel of his hand while he hammered into me. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of white-hot static that drowned out the interview, the manifesto, the millions of eyes waiting for me.
I shattered. I screamed his name into his neck, biting down on his shoulder, my body seizing in violent, jerky spasms that wrung every drop of anxiety out of my muscles.
He followed me seconds later, groaning low in his chest, pouring himself into me, holding me tight against the counter until the aftershocks faded.
We stayed there for a moment, panting, the only sound the hum of the extractor fan and our ragged breathing. My forehead rested against his chest. My legs were trembling, but the vibration in my bones, the bad one, was gone.
Silence. Finally.
Mateo smoothed his hand down my back, a calming, heavy stroke. He pulled away slowly, adjusting his clothes, then reached down to fix my skirt. He did it with a strange, rough tenderness.
I took a deep breath. It filled my lungs completely.
"Better?" he asked, his voice gravel.
"Reboot successful," I whispered, leaning back against the mirror.
I lifted my eyes. That was when I saw him.
Juno was standing in the doorway.
He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a dark turtleneck that made his amber eyes look like burning coals. He hadn't just arrived. He had been watching.
Shame tried to flare up, the old Beta instinct that said sex was private, that being seen like this was unprofessional, but it died instantly. There was no judgment on Juno’s face. No voyeuristic sleaze.
He was watching us the way a wolf watches the pack. Alert. Protective. Checking the vitals.
Mateo turned, following my gaze. He didn't startle, just withdrew from me and tucked himself back in his pants before he nodded to Juno, a silent communication passing between them.She’s grounded. She’s back.
