Fucking hell.
It isn’t soft or sweet or even kind. It’s teeth and heat and raw, sharpened need—his mouth crashing into mine like a storm front, like punishment and promise and threat all fused into one filthy collision. I gasp into it, moan against his tongue, and the phone slips from my fingers to clatter on the concrete. I don’t care. I grab his jaw with both hands, fingers clawing at the rough stubble, nails dragging down his throat as though I could peel the last of his restraint away with my bare hands.
But then the bastard twists me again—fast, rough, spinning me like a top until my palms slam against the scorching metal of the container wall, chest heaving, breath ragged.
I blink, voice cracking. “What the hell—”
He bends, picks the phone up off the ground. I glance back over my shoulder and watch him press it to the wall in front of me, securing it with black tape—two perfect, deliberate strips that lock the screen right at my eye level. My own face stares back at me from the frozen frame: mid-laugh, mid-trust, mid-everything I used to give without question.
“If you wanna watch it,” Rafe mutters behind me, voice low and wrapped in fire, “then watch it.”
I freeze. Heat curls low and vicious in my spine. My breath snags in my throat. “Rafe,” I whisper.
But he’s already stepping closer, body crowding mine against the wall, and I know—bone-deep, pulse-racing certainty—that I am not getting out of this standing up.
One of Rafe’s hands slams against the container wall right beside my own, the sharp crack of it slicing through the heavy heat like a gunshot. His chest presses flush to my back—solid, scorching, a wall of muscle and fury and iron control that wraps around me like war itself. Then his other hand snakes low around my waist, palm flattening over my stomach and dragging me back against him until there’s no space left between my spine and his ribs, until I’m pinned exactly where he wants me.
My breath catches hard in my throat.
He’s hard. Of course he is. Of fucking course.
The heat of him burns through the thin fabric between us, searing and unyielding. His nose brushes the side of my neck, lips parting as though he’s about to speak, but he holds the words back, letting the silence stretch taut and dangerous. He keeps me there—faceto the wall, body caged, the flickering past still playing inches from my eyes on the taped screen—and waits.
For me to flinch. For me to break.
But I don’t.
Instead I lean back—just enough, just so his cock presses harder against my ass and my palms flatten against the burning metal like I’m bracing to beg. The phone keeps looping the sound of me moaning for another man, but all I can feel is this one. Rafe.
He doesn’t move much, not really—just breathes against the side of my neck, each exhale tasting like the last thread of his restraint. His hand stays braced flat against the wall beside mine, pinning me without needing to touch me further, because his body is already a fucking cage: chest locked to my spine, hips aligned with mine like a warning carved into skin. The video plays on—my laugh again, that hated sound I want to strangle, the laugh of a boy who trusted too easily—and Rafe leans in closer, nose dragging slow and deliberate up the back of my neck, a breath shy of teeth.
“Watching him again?” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-dark, wrapped in smoke.
I don’t answer. My throat is too tight.
His free hand moves—slides up my stomach, slips under the hem of my shorts, not touching anything yet, just hovering there, heavy with promise. His lips brush the shell of my ear.
“Funny,” he says softly. “You don’t sound like that anymore.”
My breath stutters. My fingers curl against the wall.
“You know what I hear when I play you back?” he asks, voice silk-wrapped violence, each word deliberate. “I hear begging. I hear mine. I hear you sobbing when I don’t let you come.”
I gasp—quiet, filthy, true.
He grinds into me slow and hard, the motion like punctuation between sins. His teeth drag across the shell of my ear, a promise of more.
“Bet he never made you cry,” Rafe growls, low and rough. “Not like I do. Not when you’re cock-drunk and writhing.”
The screen in front of me flashes again—Nathan’s voice, his fucking fingers, my smile.
Rafe’s hand drops lower. Just a little. Just enough to make my hips twitch. “You miss that?” he asks, voice gone sharp. “Or do you like the way I ruin you better?”
My hips twitch without permission. My hands flatten tighter to the wall. And I can’t hold it back anymore—not the need, not the ache, not the answer. I reach back blindly,fingers fumbling until they curl into the front of Rafe’s jeans, dragging him closer, forcing him to press flush against my ass. And I whisper, voice wrecked and breathless—“Then fucking show me.”
Rafe slams his hand over mine, pinning it to the wall, and shoves his hips against me like he’s about to rewire my memory. He slams his hips into mine, hard enough that my breath punches out against the container wall. His hand slides between my thighs with precision born of obsession, gripping me so tight I moan on contact. The phone’s still playing in front of me, Nathan’s voice still echoing across hot metal and bloodstained concrete, but it’s nothing now. Background noise. Faded ghosts. Because this? This is real. Rafe’s cock grinding against the curve of my ass, Rafe’s breath on the back of my neck, Rafe’s voice about to rip me wide open.
His mouth brushes my ear.“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me what you are.”
