“Tease,” I accused, but the word melted into a moan as he pushed in—slow, relentless, stretching me open inch by veiny inch.
We both cursed in unison.
He wasbig, filling me in a way that bordered on too much, my walls fluttering and clenching around the invasion. The locker room’s sterile chill—cedar blocks long faded, faint floral ghosts in the grout, the sharp mineral bite of old pipes—faded beneath the overwhelming scent of us.
His burnt-sugar and blood-orange deepened into something darker, smoke and spice and pure Alpha rut-edge that made my head spin. My own frosted-strawberry sweetness sharpened, cutting through the steam like candy left too close to a flame.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gritted out, burying his face in my neck. “Like you were made for this. We you waiting for fate to bring you right to me, Pinky?”
I grinned against his damp hair, even as my body adjusted, quivering around his length.
“Did you think I’d give myself to just anyone? I’m picky, Santori. Very.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating straight through me, and kissed me hard—deep, devouring, tongues sliding as he held perfectly still, letting me adjust.
The wait was torture and bliss, my pussy pulsing around every ridge and vein until the stretch bloomed into pure heat.
When he finally moved, it was heaven.
Long, rolling thrusts that built steadily, hips snapping up to meet me as I rocked down. Water pounded his shoulders, sluicing between our bodies where we joined.
We tried for quiet—really, we did.
But every thrust punched a whimper or moan from my throat, and his low growls answered like they were tuned to the same frequency.
He broke the kiss to rest his mouth against my ear.
“You’re gonna be a new addiction, Pinky. One I don’t want to quit.”
I clenched around him deliberately, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Challenge accepted. But I don’t lose either, remember?”
His laugh was ragged.
“Neither do I.”
The build is almost unfair.
As if he knows my body—knows exactly what every stuttered breath and every bite of my lip means, how the tension whiplashes through me, tightening, winding, drawing me closer and closer to a peak I’m barely prepared to handle.
He watches my face as he moves inside me, reads every microexpression like a playbook, and when my eyes go wide and glassy, the cocky bastard actually grins.
Then he shifts his angle—just slightly, like he’s tweaking a hockey stick mid-play—and drives deeper, harder, until eachthrust hits a spot so perfect I swear I see the universe flicker out behind my eyelids.
He drags every last whimper out of me, building the tempo until I’m clutching at him, nails carving crescent moons into his rain-slicked shoulders. The ache at my core goes incandescent, almost unendurable, and every muscle inside me contracts as if I could physically anchor all of this inside me forever.
The steam soaks through my hair, beads along my temple, and I’m not sure if the wetness between us is water or sweat or something elemental; like we’re two meteorites slamming together and vaporizing on impact.
Even through the haze, I smell our combined scents, sharp and sweet and dizzying, like sugared citrus and wild strawberries and the chemical spark of ozone before a thunderstorm.
There is no outside world.
There is only Matteo:his body, his focus, the way he seems to know exactly when I’m about to come undone and teeters me right at the brink, just to watch me squirm.
I try to clamp down on the urge, force myself to hold back even as the pleasure builds, but my hips buck helplessly, chasing every snap of his movement, and my throat gives up these tiny desperate sounds that I’ll never admit to making.
He leans in, mouth right at my ear, and groans as if he’s the one being tortured. His hands shift, one arm bracing under my ass to keep me anchored, the other splayed firm over my lower back, pinning me so there’s nowhere to run except straight over the edge.
