Ragged breaths pushed between his lips, chest heaving under my palm. “I can’t do this. I won’t.”
“Then let go of my wrist.”
He didn’t. Instead, he yanked me forward until my body slammed against his. I felt every inch of him, even the thick bulge in his jeans pressing against my stomach.
“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dark and tormented before his mouth crashed down on mine.
The kiss was brutal, all teeth and tongue and pent-up desperation. He spun us around, pinning me to the counter with his hips, one hand fisting my hair to tilt my head back, the other sliding under my tank top to cup my breast roughly. I arched into him, moaning when he rolled my nipple between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to send a jolt straight to my core.
“This is the last time,” he growled against my lips.
I laughed breathlessly, nails scraping down his back. “You said that last night.”
“I mean it.” But his hand was already fumbling with the drawstring of my shorts, yanking them open, fingers diving inside. When he found me bare and dripping, he cursed low and filthily.
“Jesus… you’re already soaked.”
His fingers slid between my thighs, pushing past the soft cotton of my shorts until he felt how soaked I was for him.
He went completely still.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. His thumb brushed once along my center, slow and deliberate, just enough to make my breath hitch.
My hips rocked forward instinctively, chasing the pressure. “Marcus,” I whispered.
His jaw flexed hard. For a second I thought he would do it. I thought he’d slide his fingers inside me again and make me come the way he had the night before.
Instead he dragged his hand away slowly, like it physically hurt him to do it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
I stepped closer, heart pounding. “Stop fighting it.”
His eyes darkened as they dropped to my mouth. “You have no idea how much I want to,” he said roughly. “But if I touch you again right now, I’m going to fuck you like I own you.”
My heart thundered at that, and I opened my mouth to demand he do just that, but his words stopped me.
“Get upstairs before I change my mind,” he said hoarsely. “Now.”
“Marcus—” I reached for him.
“Go.” His voice broke. “Please.”
I fixed my shorts with shaking hands, throat tight. I nodded and left him there, alone in the kitchen, staring at the floor as if he hated himself.
The next morning, he was gone before I woke up. Another note saying he was working late and not to wait up for him.
He did this for three days straight, leaving before dawn and coming home after midnight, barely speaking when our paths crossed. And I didn’t push it, didn’t try to reconnect.
He showered in the downstairs bathroom, crashed on the couch instead of his bed upstairs near mine. When we were in the same room, he kept distance with his eyes averted, jaw clenched, and body language screaming regret.
But the stolen moments still slipped through the cracks.
The fourth night he came home late, I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water, wearing just an oversized T-shirt and panties. I assumed he’d be working late so hadn’t expected him to see me in barely anything.
He walked in, and I looked over my shoulder. He saw me bending to grab a bottle from the lower fridge shelf and froze. I felt the heat of his stare on my ass, on my barely-there panties that showed more than they covered.
I stayed bent over for more time than what was necessary, letting his eyes take me, then straightened before speaking. “You’re avoiding me.”
