"Yeah."
"Then stop asking questions."
I pull her shirt over her head, drop it on the floor. She does the same with mine, fingers tracing the bruises on my ribs like she's memorizing the damage. When her hands move to my belt, I catch her wrists.
"We're doing this my way," I tell her.
"Then do it."
I pin both her wrists above her head with one hand, flat against the wall. She tests the hold, not trying to escape, just measuring how serious I am. I tighten my grip, and her breath stutters.
I let go of her wrists long enough to reach behind her and unhook her bra, strip it down her arms, and toss it. Before she can lower her hands, I pin them back above her head. The whole thing takes three seconds. She tests the new hold, and I tighten my grip. She's bare from the waist up, pinned against cheap motel wallpaper, and the sight of her like this, the rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading down her throat, the way her nipples harden under my gaze before I've even touched her, makes my cock strain against my jeans so hard it hurts.
I lower my mouth to her neck. Taste salt and skin and the faint trace of whatever soap she used in the bathroom. She tilts her head to give me more, and I take it, dragging my tongue down the line of her throat, across her collarbone, lower. When I close my mouth over her nipple and suck hard enough to make her gasp, her hips roll forward against mine, searching for friction she's not going to get yet.
"Grant. Please."
"I said my way." I bite down, just enough to sting, and the sound she makes goes straight to the base of my spine. "My way means I decide when."
"You're killing me."
"That's the point."
I release her wrists long enough to strip her jeans down her legs. She kicks them off, and I press her back against the wall, one thigh wedged between hers. She's in cotton underwear, plain and practical, and the wet heat I feel through the fabric when she grinds against my leg nearly undoes every scrap of control I have left.
I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull them down. She steps out of them, completely bare now, and I drop to my knees.
"What are you?—"
"Quiet."
I grip her thighs, spread them apart, and put my mouth on her. She tastes like want and adrenaline and something sweet underneath, and the moan she lets out hits the walls of this room and comes back to me. I pin her hips against the wall with my forearm because she's already trying to move, trying to ride my mouth, trying to take control. Not yet.
I work her with my tongue, slow and deliberate, learning what makes her shake and what makes her grab my hair so hard it stings. She's loud. I like that. Every sound she makes is unfiltered and raw, nothing performed, nothing held back. When I press two fingers inside her while my tongue circles her clit, her knees buckle and I have to hold her up.
"Grant, I can't. I'm going to?—"
I pull back. She makes a sound of pure frustration that borders on fury.
"You son of a bitch."
"Not yet." I stand, unbuckle my belt, shove my jeans and boxers down. Her eyes drop and her lips part, and the hunger on her face feeds something dark and possessive in my chest. I grip myself, stroke once to take the edge off, and watch her watch me do it.
"Turn around," I say.
She hesitates. Just a beat. Weighing whether to obey or fight. Then she turns, palms flat against the wall, and looks at me over her shoulder with amber eyes that dare me to back down.
I press against her from behind, my chest to her back, one hand sliding around her hip to find where she's slick andswollen. She pushes back into me, and the head of my cock slides against her, not inside, not yet, just the wet friction of almost.
"Say you want this," I tell her, my mouth against her ear.
"I want this." No hesitation. No calculation.
I slide into her in one long stroke, and the sound we both make fills the room. She's tight and hot and her body grips me like it's trying to keep me, and I have to press my forehead against her shoulder blade and breathe through the urge to let go right there.
I pull back and thrust hard, and her hands curl against the wallpaper. I set the pace. Slow out, hard in, the kind of rhythm that builds pressure without release. My hand stays between her legs, fingers working her clit in counterpoint to every thrust, and she's shaking, bracing herself against the wall while I take her apart from behind.
"Faster," she says.
