His answer is a groan, muffled as his forehead hits the tile. His muscles tremble under my hands, tension thrumming through him like a live wire.
I let him squirm, let the frustration build. My hand slides down his stomach, hovering just above where he’s straining, and he practically snarls.
“Phoenix—”
“Say it,” I rasp, teeth dragging along his ear.
His pride keeps him silent. He shakes his head, panting, chest heaving. I squeeze him tight, denying him the friction he wants, grinding my thigh higher instead. He lets out a broken sound, half-growl, half-plea.
That’s when he snaps.
“Yours,” he spits, harsh and defiant, as if the word costs him. “I’m yours, all right? Now, please, fucking touch me.”
The sound that rips from my chest is animal. I drive into him, snapping his hips against mine.
I grab him, stroking hard and fast, no more teasing, no more games. His knees buckle, his head snapping back, water and sweat streaming down his face. His cries echo off the tile, swallowed by the hiss of the shower. My own body is strung tight, desperate, on the edge of unraveling just from the sight of him coming apart like this—because of me. Only me.
When he finally breaks, it’s violent, his whole body bowing, mouth open in a strangled cry as release wracks him. He comes all over my hand, making me pulse with desire. I press my mouth to his shoulder, biting down to muffle my own groan as I follow, the world exploding in white-hot fragments behind my eyes.
For a long moment, the only sounds are our ragged breaths and the water hammering down. My hands are still on him, stroking through the aftershocks, grounding myself in the tremors of his body.
I press a kiss between his shoulder blades, softer now, reverent in the aftermath of violence. “Good boy,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. “Fuck you.”
“When we get home, baby.” I pull away, grabbing some soap from beside us.
He doesn’t move at all, really. Just leans into the wall, chest heaving, while the water washes everything else away.
And I know I’m fucked.
Because this wasn’t just about hunger, or anger, or adrenaline. This was possession. Obsession.
And I’ll burn for it again and again.
14
LEANDER
Idon’t even know when it started.
When wanting him stopped being about the rush, the danger, the way he consumed me like fire. Somewhere along the line, the chaos turned into something steadier, something I don’t even have the word for.
Maybe it’s love.
It slips into my head like a traitor, uninvited, and I can’t shake it.
I’m in the back of the bus, ear pressed to the cold window, pretending I’m asleep while the guys argue about plays from the game. My knee still throbs from where I took that hit earlier, my knuckles are raw, but none of it matters. I feel more alive right now than I ever have before.
The fight should’ve drained me. Should’ve left me aching and guilty for losing control. Instead, I feel… untouchable. Like for once, I didn’t just take the hits—I gave them back. And the look on Phoenix’s face when I did? That wild hunger, that pride burning in his eyes like I was more than he’d dared to hope for.
It does something to me.
I’ve been quiet my whole life. Careful. Keeping my head down, staying small, staying out of the way. But with him… with him I don’t shrink. I step into the fire. And it doesn’t burn me, it makes me stronger.
Even in the shower after, when the steam fogged the glass and his hands bruised into my skin, I wasn’t just surviving him. I pushed back. For a moment, I had him. His body pinned, his head tipped back by my hand tangled in his hair, his eyes blown wide like maybe he’d let me. Like he wanted me to.
And fuck, the memory twists low in my stomach now, hotter than it should. I’ve never let myself imagine it before, but it comes to me so vividly I can’t stop it. Phoenix beneath me, muscles taut and trembling, his cocky grin finally breaking when I push him past his limit. The control in my hands, not his. Him softening for me the way he’s never softened for anyone.
