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I hold perfectly still. I let the intense friction settle.

“You okay?” I whisper, leaning down to kiss the sweat from his temple.

He opens his eyes. The gold irises burn with an intensity that steals my breath.

“Move,” he demands, pulling my hips forward. “Don’t stop.”

I set a punishing rhythm.

The silence of the apartment shatters. The wet slap of skin, the mattress’s heavy creak, and the broken sounds spilling from Zane’s mouth fill the tiny room. I pull back until we are barely connected, then bury myself to the hilt, grinding my hips against his.

Zane loses his mind. He thrashes beneath me, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, forcing me deeper. He meets every thrust with a violent, upward jerk of his hips.

“Yours,” he snarls, the word tearing out of him like a confession.

“All of it.” I bite down on his collarbone, marking the skin.

His face, the sounds he makes, the way he tightens around me—it’s almost too much.

I reach between us, wrapping my hand around his thick, leaking cock. I stroke him in time with my thrusts.

Zane shatters. He cries out, a loud, wordless sound of pure release. He spills over my hand, his internal muscles clenching down on my shaft like a vise.

The sensation snaps my control in half.

I drive deep, burying myself one final time, and empty into him with a roaring groan.

I collapse forward, dropping my heavy weight onto his chest. Zane catches me. He wraps his strong arms around my back, holding me flush against his sweat-slicked skin. We lie in a tangled heap, our chests heaving, fighting to drag oxygen back into our lungs.

Minutes pass. His frantic heartbeat slows, finding a steady, calm rhythm against my ribs.

I lift my head.

Zane stares up at the ceiling. His shoulders have finally dropped.

“Four days,” I remind him softly.

He turns his head and meets my gaze. A small, genuine smile curves the corners of his mouth.

“I can survive four days.”

17

ZANE

Sweat stings my eyes. The sharp crack of my shinbone hitting the heavy Thai pads echoes through the private training room. Dan holds the thick leather targets tight against his chest. He barks orders. I execute. Left hook, right cross, slip the imaginary counter, body kick.

I’m a machine built of flesh and muscle. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. The other guys in the gym steer clear of the main mats today. They smell the shift in my mood. They think I’m focused on the fight. They believe I’m dialing into the violence required for Saturday night.

They don’t know my ribs ache from holding my chest together.

“Reset,” Dan orders.

I plant my feet. I throw the combination again. Faster. Harder. The impact sends a shockwave up my arm, rattling my teeth.

“Drop your level on the cross,” Dan snaps. “Rivera likes to slip inside. You leave that chin high, he’ll clip you. We saw it in the first fight. Don’t give him the opening.”

Hearing Micah’s name in this building feels like a physical violation. My jaw clenches. I nod. I drop my level and throw the punch again. The leather slaps loudly.