I ignore it.
I bury my face in her neck.
I inhale. Her scent floods my senses, drowning out the last remnants of the cold world outside. My mouth opens against her skin. I scrape my teeth over the soft hollow of her throat.
Priya shudders violently. Her fingers dig into my bare shoulders. Her nails bite into my skin.
I suck a bruising mark into the side of her neck. I claim the territory. I brand her with my mouth. I want the entire world to see the dark purple bruise and know exactly who she belongs to.
She arches her back. Her hips press forward.
The friction is catastrophic.
The soft mound of her center drags across the straining bulge behind my zipper. The denim grinds against the soft fabric of her slacks.
A low growl rips out of my chest. It sounds like an animal tearing through meat.
I grip her hips with both hands. I’m rough. I don’t know how to be gentle. I have forgotten what softness feels like. My large hands span the width of her pelvis, my thumbs digging deeply into her hip bones.
I pull her against my groin.
Priya cries out. Her head falls back, hair cascading over my arm. She grinds against me, chasing the brutal friction of my erection.
I roll my hips upward, meeting her thrust. The solid ridge of my cock presses painfully against my zipper, desperate to break free, desperate to bury itself inside her heat. I want to rip her clothes to shreds. I want to split her open on this sterile therapy table and ruin her for any other man.
My mouth moves from her neck to her jaw. I bite her chin. I drag my lips across her cheek.
"Priya."
I force her name out through clenched teeth. It is not a plea. It is a claim.
She opens her eyes. They are glazed with narcotic lust.
I capture her mouth.
The kiss is not a request. It’s a siege. I part her lips bruisingly. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the sweet, hot spice of her breath. I devour her. I consume her moans. She tastes like life. She tastes like salvation. I angle my head and kiss her deeper, harder, punishing her mouth with decades of starved desperation.
Priya kisses me back with equal violence. Her hands slide up my neck. Her fingers rake through the close-cropped salt-and-pepper at my nape. She pulls my head down, demanding more pressure. Her tongue battles mine, wet and slick and intoxicating.
My right hand leaves her hip. I sweep my palm up her torso. I grab the front of her tailored blouse. I close my fist around the fabric and rip.
The buttons tear free with a sharp, violent popping sound. They scatter across the linoleum floor like hail.
Priya gasps into my mouth, breaking the kiss. She looks down at her ruined shirt.
The silk hangs open. The delicate lace of her bra is exposed. Her breasts heave with rapid, shallow breaths. The pale skin is flushed with a pink arousal.
She is shivering. The clinic air is cold against her exposed skin.
A ferocious, territorial rage spikes in my blood. No one sees her skin but me. No cold touches her but mine.
I grab the heavy, bloodstained tactical shirt I discarded earlier. I shake it out.
"Put your arms out."
Priya blinks, dazed by the violent shift in momentum. She is trembling. She slowly extends her arms.
I strip the ruined silk blouse off her shoulders. I toss it away. It lands somewhere in the corner, forgotten trash. I pull the tactical shirt over her head and drag it down over her curves, covering her before anyone else can see her exposed.
