Her fingers clawed at the collar of my shirt, pulling me closer, and her body trembled. Not with fear, but with something hotter, wetter.
Fuck, she was dripping for me, desperate, and I wanted to rip those shorts off with my teeth and bury my face between her legs until she screamed.
There was that old, sick fucking urge: destroy what you love, then cradle the wreckage.
Her legs parted like it was the only thing she knew how to do, and fuck, it was. Her hips rolled into my hands, greedy and wet.
My hands found her waist, my fingers flexing hard enough to bruise. I wanted her to remember this, to carry the marks of me under her clothes for days.
She moaned, a sound so fucking animalistic it made my dick throb, and I lost it. I pinned her with my hips, pressed my face into the hollow of her neck, and tasted the salt of her skin.
She tipped her head back, eyelids heavy, her breath ragged and wild. I licked her collarbone, sucked the soft flesh until she whimpered, then kissed up to her jaw, biting just hard enough to make her shiver.
For one dizzy fucking second I imagined bending her over the cheap kitchen table, shoving her shorts down, and fucking her until the world dissolved around us. I wanted her so much it fucking hurt.
I wanted her so much, I hated her for it.
I’d imagined in a thousand sick moments what it would be like to have her like this, but nothing prepared me for the real heat of her, the way her body arched to meet my hands.
I needed to stop. I should have run.
But I couldn't, because the closer I got, the more I remembered the screaming ache of the years I spent hating her, and the way that hate was just love with a hole punched through it.
The monster in me was bone-deep, marrow-rich, and it wanted her more than it wanted to breathe. I didn't care if I was fucking her or killing her, the line was so thin you could lose it in a hair.
It was the most alive I’d felt in months, and I wasn’t about to stop.
I let myself grind into her, once, rough enough to draw a gasp from her lips. It was all teeth and fucking hunger, the need to claim her, to mark her, to make her mine in a way that would outlast both of us.
“Stop,” she whispered, but her legs locked around me, holding me exactly where I was. “Caiden, I—” She shook, like she was fighting herself, like she was fighting me.
I drew back, just enough to see her face, the moonlight washing in through the window and making her look like a fucking goddess.
Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide, pupils blown into black holes. She looked like she wanted to kill me and kiss me forever, and fuck, I wanted it all.
I rocked against her, again slow and desperate, and she arched back, a flash of teeth as she bit her lip, eyes fluttering.
She said my name against my mouth, just a soft, wet gasp—“Caiden”—and I almost came right then, grinding into her like a fucking animal.
The sound of it, helpless and hungry, burned through every fucking layer of armor I’d spent my life building.
She gasped again, nails digging into my biceps, and I couldn't help myself. I dragged her forward on the counter, pressed our bodies together until the heat might have fused us into one ruined thing.
I was grinding into her, desperate now like a beast, and she met me thrust for thrust, her whole body shaking in my hands. The friction was perfect, sick and sweet. I pressed my mouth to hers, holding her jaw so she couldn’t turn away.
She twisted, hips angling to press herself right up against my cock the way she wanted, the heat between her legs soaking straight through both our shorts.
Her breath stuttered. My hands itched to rip the thin, useless fabric away and get my fingers into her, feel how wet she was for me, but instead I just rocked against her, slow, grinding, until my vision went white.
She hooked her ankles behind my back, pinning me in place. I moaned into her mouth, so gone I didn’t care if every person in the house heard it.
I was so hard I could barely think, could barely breathe. Her hands clawed at my shoulders, desperate, as if she was holding on for dear life.
My hands slid up under her shirt, palms mapping the hot, frantic drum of her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her tits.
She whimpered when I cupped them, when I thumbed her nipples through the thin cotton, and the sound gave me a sickjolt that made me shove harder, rutting against the seam of her shorts until I was dizzy with it.
I slid one palm up the inside of her thigh, felt the muscles tense and quiver under my hand.
