She shoves me again.
Something in me snaps. I catch her wrists and push her back until she hits the wall. She doesn’t pull away. She lifts her chin instead, drawing a quick breath through her nose, eyes dark.
“You don’t get to cage me,” she says.
“I’m not trying to,” I say. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Then stop acting like I’m already gone.”
I let go of her wrists but stay close. My hands move to her waist. She pushes at my shoulders. I don’t move. She pushes again. I lift her and set her on the edge of the table. I step between her knees without asking.
Her hands come to my face, not tender, not angry, claiming. Mine follow hers, mapping the shape of her like I’m memorizing it under pressure.
She presses her forehead to mine, breathing uneven. “If you don’t come back,” she says, “I’ll dismantle everything you touched.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You’d do it cleanly.”
“I’d do it thoroughly.”
I kiss her hard, and she takes it harder. Her hands pull at my shirt, yanking the hem up, desperate and angry and turned on in a way that feels like combat. Like surrender with teeth. I rip the fabric over my head and throw it somewhere behind me. She drags her nails down my chest, not gentle, and I groan at the sting.
Her thighs tighten around my hips, and I grab her ass and pull her closer on the table. The sound she makes hits deep in my gut. I cup the back of her neck with one hand, the other sliding up her shirt, over her ribs, until I feel the soft weight of her breast. No bra. My thumb brushes her nipple and she gasps into my mouth.
“You want to talk about danger,” I mutter, dragging my mouth along her jaw, “but you kiss me like you want to start a war.”
She bites my shoulder in answer, and I press her back flat onto the table, standing over her, eyes locked on hers.
“You know what happens now,” I say.
She nods once. “So fucking do it.”
I grip her waistband and yank her pants down. She lifts her hips and kicks them off without ceremony. She’s already wet, already pulsing heat against my fingers, and when I push two inside her, her back arches off the table.
“Liar,” I say. “You were ready the second you shoved me.”
“Shut up,” she gasps, rolling her hips toward my hand.
“Say please.”
“Go to hell.”
I curl my fingers and hit the spot that makes her cry out.
She claws at the table, head tipping back, thighs shaking. I watch her fall apart on my hand, slick and perfect and mine. When I pull my fingers out, she groans at the loss. I reach for my belt and drop my jeans to the floor, condom already in my hand. She watches me roll it on like she’s starving for it, her chest rising and falling fast.
I grab her thighs and yank her back to the edge.
“Ready?” I ask, voice rougher than it’s ever been.
She doesn’t answer. She hooks her legs around me and pulls me in.
I thrust into her in one long, slow stroke, and her eyes slam shut as her body goes taut.
“Open your eyes,” I say.
She does. Her mouth drops open and I start to move, slow at first, then faster when she starts to meet every thrust with one of her own. I brace one hand on the table, the other gripping her hip so tight she’ll feel it tomorrow. Her hands drag down my arms, her nails scraping over old scars.
“You’re still angry,” I say.
