He thrusts into me. Brutal. Deep. Fast. A gasp tears out of me at the sudden fierce invasion, my nails raking sharp half-moons into his shoulders. The stretch pushes every limit after the alley's roughness, but it's exactly what I need. What I've been craving since the moment I first pressed myself against him on that dance floor.
"Look at me." His fingers grip my chin, forcing my eyes open.
I lock onto storm-gray eyes gone wild with feral need. The rhythm sets immediately—punishing, relentless, driving thebreath from my lungs with every thrust. Skin slaps against skin. The headboard cracks against the wall.
"Harder," I demand, my voice already breaking.
He obliges instantly, hands anchoring on my hips to drive himself deeper. The friction builds—sharp, frantic, entirely necessary. The world narrows to the heat of his skin, the sweat dampening our bodies, the heavy wet sound of flesh meeting flesh. I rake my nails down his chest in retaliation. Red lines bloom in their wake, marking him the way he's marking me.
He flashes that predatory wolf's grin—the one from the bar that first made me stupid—and continues destroying me with zero hesitation.
Then he pulls out completely.
Before I can protest, his hands are already moving—flipping me with a rough efficiency that leaves no room for argument, hauling my hips up until I'm on my knees in front of him. The sudden reposition steals my breath. His hand fists in my hair, gathering it into one grip, and he yanks my head back until my throat is exposed and my back is a sharp, helpless arch.
"Thisis what you asked for." His mouth grazes my ear, his voice a low wreck. "All night. Whatever I want."
“Yes. God, yes.”
He drives into me from behind, and the sound that tears out of me is embarrassingly loud.
The room comes alive with it—the rhythmic crack of the headboard slamming the wall, the creak and protest of the mattress springs, the obscene slap of skin on skin, his breathing ragged and rough behind me, my own moans spiraling higher and higher and completely beyond my control.
It's too much.
It's not enough.
The grip in my hair holds my neck arched, forces me to feel every inch of every thrust with nowhere to retreat, no way to moderate any of it.
I stop trying.
I babble. Beg. Threaten him with physical violence if he slows down even fractionally. He answers by tightening his fist in my hair and going harder.
When I finally shatter it takes my whole body with it—every muscle seizing, his name tearing hoarse from my raw throat, my fingers twisted white-knuckled in the sheets. He hits the edge a breath behind me, driving brutally deep one final shuddering time, his groan vibrating long and guttural against the back of my neck as he buries himself and stays there.
We collapse together in a tangle of damp skin and wrecked breathing.
His weight should feel crushing. Instead it anchors me—holds me together while everything reassembles itself into something resembling a person.
"You're trouble." He traces my swollen lower lip with a fading kiss.
"You said that at the bar."
"It's still true." He rolls us both, pulling me against his side. "Should have walked away. Glad I didn't."
"Me too."
"The moment I saw you dancing, I knew I was fucked." His hand strokes my tangled hair. "Knew I'd follow you anywhere. Do anything to keep you safe."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He meets my eyes in the dark. "Know you're brave and reckless and too smart for your own good. Know you taste like whiskey and bad decisions. Know I want to wake up tomorrow and do this all over again."
"Why wait until tomorrow?"
A low laugh rumbles through his chest. "Even I need twenty minutes to recover, little bird."
"Twenty minutes." I consider that. "So basically immediately."
