Finally—finally—something flickers behind his eyes. Anger. Heat.
He grabs my wrists, spins us around. We grapple, slipping on the wet tiles, our bodies crashing into lockers and walls. Water sprays everywhere as we fight for position.
I’m stronger than I was an hour ago. Fueled by rage and humiliation. But he’s still Marco, reigning Deathball champion of five years, and although it pains me to admit it, he’s better than me.
For a moment he has me pinned, but I twist hard, using his momentum against him. My shoulder drives into his chest, and suddenly I’m the oneslamming him face first against a locker. The metal rings out with the impact.
His cheek presses against the cold surface. I hold him there with my body, trapping him.
“You think you can fuck with me?” I spit the words at him. “I’ll show you.”
My hand finds his hair, dark and wet. I yank his head back hard, exposing the column of his throat.
“You know what?” I tighten my grip on his hair, feel him shiver. “For all your bravado and talk, I bet you love to lose control.”
It’s like I’m possessed. Possessed by rage and violence and lust all twisted together into something I don’t recognize. My free hand traces down his back, over the wet fabric of his tunic.
I slip my hand underneath, fingers finding warm skin. Slide them lower, toward the cleft of his ass.
I pause, waiting for him to stop me.
He doesn’t.
“I bet you’re so tired of always being in control,” I breathe into his ear. “Tired of everyone being afraid of you.”
He remains silent, eyes burrowing into mine, burning pits of fire.
“I bet you want someone who isn’t scared of you. Someone who’ll make you beg.”
Now his eyes flash. “Get your hands off me,” he hisses, though his movements to shove me off come weak.
My eyes catch something in the open locker beside us. Body oil, cap twisted loose from someone’s hasty exit. My hand moves without conscious thought, fingers closing around the small bottle while my pulse hammers so loud in my ears it drowns out everything else—reason, consequences, the voice screaming that this is madness.
My other hand finds the waistband of his shorts. The fabric is stupidly thin, and it tears like tissue paper under my grip, falling away as if the universe itself wants this to happen.
Marco tries to wrench free, muscles coiling beneath my touch. I slam him harder against the locker, metal groaning under the impact.
“Stay still,” I command.
The bottle tips in my hand. Oil spills over his skin—more than I intended—half the contents coating him in slick coolness. He hisses as it runs down the curve of his ass, between his legs. The sound sends heat straight to my cock.
My finger finds his entrance. Presses. He’s tight, resistant, but the oil makes everything possible.
I push inside. No warning. No preparation beyond the slick coating between us.
He grunts—a raw sound that echoes off tile walls. Not pain. Something deeper. Hungrier.
When I’ve done this before, with a small handful of select others, I’ve always taken my time with them. Slow and careful touches, gentle strokes, whispered reassurances. I’d make sure my lover was well cared for. Cherished.
Not this time.
This time I’m all violence and need, my finger driving into him with brutal efficiency. Fast. Relentless. Making him feel every thrust.
He writhes against the locker like he’s trying to escape, but his body tells a different story. The way he pushes back despite himself. The sounds caught in his throat—breathless gasps that might be protests if they weren’t so obviously pleasure.
I add a second finger, stretching him wider. He arches, head thrown back, those magnificent tendons standing out in his neck. His hands scrabble against the metal, looking for purchase, for something to hold on to.
“Fuck,” he gasps, the word barely audible.
