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His mouth slammed against mine, all fury and fire and something far more dangerous. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was violence and heat and desperation disguised as a kiss—lips and teeth and the copper sting of blood as our mouths collided, caught between resistance and something far more primal.
His grip on my wrist held me in place, while his other hand fisted into my hair, forcing my head back against the cold tile. He pressed in fully, pinning me between his body and the wall, all hard muscle and raw tension. I could feel every line of him, the sharp breath in his throat, the way his chest rose against mine in a stuttering rhythm.
I bit his lip—hard enough to draw blood.
He didn’t flinch.
He kissed me harder.
And gods help me, I kissed him back.
I could feel the whole line of him—hard muscle, wet uniform, the catch in his ribs every time he breathed. My own body betrayed me, arched up into him, hunger and hate blurring until I couldn’t tell one from the other.
I managed to get my hands between us, shoved at his chest. The fabric tore under my nails, revealing a flash of skin beneath—tattoos, yes, but also something else. Scars. Old, ugly, healed badly.
He broke the kiss first, panting, forehead pressed to mine.
I spat in his face. “Fuck you.”
He wiped it away, eyes glinting. “You wish.”
I bared my teeth. “You’re not even man enough to take what you want.”
He looked at me for a long moment, face unreadable. Then he stood, yanked his shirt over his head, and tossed it aside.
His chest was a ruin. Scars layered over scars, some knife, some bullet, one so thick it looked like he’d been torn open and stitched shut by a blind man. The tattoos were Authority issue, rank and blood type and other markers, but most were faded, overgrown by the scar tissue.
He saw me staring, and for the first time he looked ashamed.
“Happy?” he said, voice bitter.
I shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
He stepped forward, close enough to pin me again. “You want to know what I want, Diana?”
I could barely breathe. “Tell me.”
He grabbed my chin, forced me to meet his gaze. “I want you to stop fighting me. Just once.”
I laughed in his face. “Then make me.”
His hands were on me before I could finish the sentence, strong and urgent, grasping me like a storm surge. He lifted me, hard, slamming my back against the wall with a force that echoed like thunder. One arm braced under my ass, firm and supportive, the other wrapped around my shoulders. My legs found his waist, locked tight, anchoring myself to him.
The rough edge of the tile dug into my spine, but I didn’t care; the pain was a distant whisper, drowned out by the roar of sensation. I bit his shoulder, drew blood, the coppery taste flooding my mouth. He growled, low and dangerous, a primal sound that resonated through his chest, and bit me back, teeth closing on the tendon at my neck, a flash of pain that sent electric shocks through my nerves.
He spun us, dropping me to the floor, but not letting go. His hands roamed, bruising, exploring, cataloguing every part of me like a hostile territory to be occupied. I clawed at his back, dug nails into his sides, raked lines through the old scars until I found a new one to leave, a fresh mark of our passion.
We crashed to the ground, rolling through the puddles and broken tile, bodies a tangle of heat and fury. The water splashed around us, cold against our heated skin, as we wrestled for dominance. He pinned my arms above my head, used his knees to spread mine wide, and pressed his weight down until I couldn’t move, his body a prison of muscle and bone.
He kissed me again, slower this time, tongue tracing the cut he’d left on my lip. I tasted copper and bleach and the ghost of his name in my mouth, a bitter cocktail of lust and desperation.
He let go of my wrists, just for a second, and I used the moment to grab his belt, yanked it open. His cock was already hard, thick and pulsing against my thigh, a rod of heated steel. I wrapped my hand around it, squeezed, and he made a noise I’d never heard from him before—a broken, desperate sound, a symphony of need and desire.
He shoved my legs wider, lined himself up, and pushed inside, hard enough to steal my breath. The pain was sharp, bright, perfect, a lightning strike of sensation that left me gasping. I dug my heels into his hips, pulled him deeper, urging him on. He fucked me like he wanted to erase every memory I’d ever had—rough, fast, no rhythm except the need. The sound of our bodies slapping together echoed off the tile, water still running overhead, washing the blood and sweat down the drain.
He braced his hands on either side of my head, face inches from mine, hair dripping. “You take me so well,” he muttered, almost reverent, his voice a low rumble of thunder.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I spat, arching up to meet him, forcing him deeper, a challenge in every movement.
