Then, I scramble up to straddle his lap.
I keep my weight entirely clear of his left arm, my bare thighs bracketing his hips. I’m sitting high, looming over him.
The power shift is dizzying. He’s always been the one in control. Here, I’m the one climbing him. I’m the one demanding this.
“Do it,” I whisper.
His jaw is tight with a fierce, hungry tension. He looks at me like I’m a miracle he dragged out of the fire.
“You represent everything I can’t have,” he says. “And I’m going to take you anyway.”
“Take me,” I say. “I’m yours. You said I was yours.”
“And you are,” he growls.
His hand shoots up, catching the fragile lace of my panties between us. He doesn’t bother sliding them off; he simply closes his fist and rips the fabric away from my hips, tossing the ruined scraps to the floor.
His bare hand covers my pussy.
He palms me, his fingers thick and hot against my bare flesh. I cry out, my head falling back. He finds me dripping wet. Soaking wet, betraying exactly how much my body needs this release.
“So fucking wet for me,” he growls, thumbing my clit through the slickness.
“Yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking into his hand. “Only you.”
I’m kneeling over his thighs. He reaches between us, sliding two thick fingers inside me.
I shudder violently. He stretches me, curling his fingers upward, hitting a spot deep inside that makes my breath catch hard in my throat. He pumps his fingers in and out, rough and fast, his thumb grinding a punishing rhythm against my clit.
“Cassian, please,” I beg, my inner walls clenching around his fingers. “I need you inside me.”
He withdraws his hand.
He fumbles with his pants, shoving them down enough to free his cock.
It shouldn’t be physically possible after losing so much blood. But the sheer, primal adrenaline of survival—and the obsessed, burning hunger in his eyes—defies logic. He’s hard, thick, and demanding. His skin is slick with a cold, shock-driven sweat, but the heat radiating off his cock is absolute. The sight of it makes my mouth water.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, positioning me over him. He leans back against the cold concrete wall behind the bed, planting his feet firmly to brace himself, carefully adjusting his posture to keep the pressure completely off his bandaged shoulder.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I do.
His face is a mask of strained control. Sweat beads on his forehead.
I guide his blunt cap to the tip of my pussy and lower myself onto him.
The sensation is overwhelming. I sink down slowly, my pussy stretching to take him inch by inch. He’s huge, filling me completely. I gasp, my hands gripping his right shoulder for balance, my nails digging into his skin.
When I’m fully seated, hilted on him, I stop.
We’re fused.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, his head falling back against the cold concrete wall behind the bed. “Iris.”
I feel him pulsing, thick inside me. I feel the tension in his thighs beneath mine.
I begin to move.
