She wraps her arms around my neck. Her fingers dig into the freezing skin of my shoulders, pulling me closer, anchoring me. She tastes like survival.
Like life.
I march her backward. She stumbles, her heels catching on the runner, but I don’t let her fall. I drive her back until her spine hits the wall.
Impact.
The air leaves her lungs in a rush, a punched-out gasp into my mouth.
“I told you. I told you to hide.”
I growl the words against her mouth, biting her lip. I want to mark her. I want to leave proof pointing to her existence.
“Make me.”
The challenge hangs in the air between us.
The words shatter whatever restraint I had left.
My hands map her. Claiming her. Gripping her waist, my thumbs dig in, finding the hip bones. I need to feel the structure of her. The bone, the muscle, the life.
I slide my hand down and find the heat between her legs. Then, I lift her.
She wraps her legs around my waist. Electric contact. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The shock of my cold thighs touching hers makes her cry out, but she tightens her grip.
I press her shoulders flat against the wall, pinning her there. My forearm bars her chest, holding her in place.
“Look at me.”
She looks. Her gaze runs wide, black with desire, wet with fear. She recognizes exactly what I am.
I drive up. I enter her in one smooth, hard motion.
A shock to the system. Tight. Wet. Perfect. The sensation overrides the cold, the wind, the threat outside. There is only this heat, this connection, the world narrowing down to the point of entry.
She cries out, throwing her head back, exposing the frantic pulse in her neck.
I bite the soft skin there, marking her to leave a trace. If they come for her, they’ll know she was mine first. They’ll know she didn’t die untouched.
I drive into her hard and fast.
No finesse. No gentle lovemaking. It’s survival and the primal need to be deep inside her, filling the void carved by fear.
The wall thuds rhythmically behind her with every thrust. The sound echoes in the hallway, a primitive beat. The hollow knock of wood and plaster is proof that we’re still here.
She meets me. Sobs tear from her throat, but she kisses me, biting my shoulder, her nails scoring my back. She needs this violence as much as I do. She needs to feel the impact to know we’re still alive.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The mantra spills out of me, desperate and harsh.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
The friction builds unbearably. Adrenaline acts as an accelerant, dousing the fire with gasoline.
She shatters around me. Her body convulses, clenching, unmaking me with a high, sobbing cry.
I follow her over the edge.
