Water streams down his back, mixing with sweat and oil, making everything slick and desperate and primal. Like we’re animals rutting in the wild instead of two men fueled only by hate. The thought makes me fuck him harder, deeper, until I’m hitting that spot inside him that makes his whole body arch like he’s been struck by lightning.
My hand clamps harder over his mouth as his body starts to shake. The tremors run through him like an earthquake, building from somewhere deep inside. His breathing turns ragged against my palm, desperate little puffs of air through his nose.
And then he’s coming.
Untouched.
Just from my cock buried inside him, just from me using his body. His whole frame goes rigid, muscles clenching around me so tight I see stars. A muffled cry escapes through my fingers—broken, needy, completely wrecked.
I suddenly want to hear them crystal clear, these sounds of him.
I remove my hand from his mouth.
And then—
“Robin.”
My name. He cries my name as he spills himself against the tiles, and something inside me cracks clean in half. The sound of it—desperate, vulnerable, like a prayer torn from his throat—hits me harder than any punch he’s ever thrown.
Despite everything, despite the hate burning through my veins, I can’t help but preen.
I did this to him. Made him fall apart with nothing but my cock.
I keep driving into him, drawing out those breathy little sounds. His body shudders with aftershocks, oversensitive now, each thrust wringing fresh whimpers from his throat.
My hand slides down the dips and valleys of his muscular body, fingers trailing through the warm mess dripping down his thigh. The feel of it—slick and hot and proof of what I’ve done to him—is enough to push me over the edge.
The urge to taste it, to bring my fingers to my mouth, hits. I resist it. Barely.
Instead, I drive as deep as possible, holding his hips with bruising force. My fingers dig into his flesh, marking him, claiming him in a way that will leave purple fingerprints for days. The thought sends me spiraling into my own release.
I come buried inside him, grinding against his ass. Heat floods through me, white-hot and devastating, wiping out every thought except the feel of his body wrapped around mine.
If we were lovers, this would be the part where his head would loll back against my chest. Where I’d reward him with gentle kisses, murmur praise into his ear, tell him how wonderful he was.
If we were lovers, I’d hold him close while we both caught our breath. Run my hands through his hair. Clean him up with tender touches.
If we were lovers—
But we’re not lovers.
We’re fighters.
“Remember this moment the next time your emperor is fucking you,” I manage, shocked by my own venom. “Remember me.”
He makes a horrible sound—almost like a cry of distress—and I want to take the words back. Want to swallow them before they can poison the air between us, irrevocably.
Instead, I pull out of him. Harsh. Rough. He winces as I withdraw, leaving him empty and dripping.
“Remember how easily I made you come.”
I step back, watching my release leak out of him and mix with the shower water at our feet.
“Remember how my cock felt inside you.”
Marco’s legs shake as he tries to stay upright against the wall. I hope he’ll be sore for days after this. Just like my throat will be.
“Because that’s the last time you’ll ever get it.” I grab a towel from the rack, not bothering to look at him. “You won’t be getting me.Everagain.”
