He pulls back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. I watch the movement of his shoulders and back, the way the muscles shift under his skin as he drops his pants and boxer briefs to the floor.
His cock is already fully hard. The sight sends another rush of heat through me even as resentment curls tight in my chest.
Zane climbs back over me, caging me in with his arms. He grips my thigh, spreading me wider, and lines himself up. The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and insistent. He doesn’t rush. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, letting me feel every thick stretch until my breath catches and my nails dig into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” I breathe, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
He stills for a second, buried deep, letting me adjust to the fullness. Then he starts to move. Long, powerful strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. His hips roll with control, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he fucks me. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, driving me harder into the mattress. The wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, louder than the rain.
I hate how good it feels. I hate how easily my body opens for him, how my legs wrap tighter around his waist like they belong there. He shifts his angle, hitting deeper, and a sharp cry escapes me.
Zane’s hand slides under my ass, lifting my hips to meet every thrust. His other hand braces beside my head, muscles flexing as he keeps his weight from crushing me completely.
He fucks me harder. The bed creaks under us. Sweat slicks our skin where we press together. I can feel the strength in his body, the way he holds me exactly where he wants me while driving into me with a steady, punishing rhythm. My breasts bounce with every impact. My clit grinds against his pelvis on each downstroke, sending sparks shooting through me.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and rough near my ear.
I don’t want to, but I lift my eyes anyway. His face is inches above mine, jaw tight, eyes dark with lust. He watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction, every gasp, every time my mouth falls open when he hits that perfect spot.
I feel myself starting to spiral. The pressure builds fast and overwhelming. My thighs shake around his hips. Zane senses it and angles his thrusts even deeper, grinding against my clit with every stroke.
I come hard, clenching around his cock, a broken moan tearing from my throat as pleasure crashes through me in heavy waves. He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, drawing it out until my vision blurs and my fingers claw at his back.
Only then does he let himself go. His rhythm turns rougher, less controlled. His breathing grows ragged against my neck. With a deep groan, he buries himself to the hilt and comes, pulsing hot and thick inside me. His body shudders over mine, strong arms trembling slightly from the force of it.
For a long moment, we stay locked together, breathing hard. The rain continues its steady rhythm against the glass.
Then the urgency breaks.
Zane pulls out, and I feel the loss immediately, the warm trickle of his release between my thighs. He shifts his weight off me but doesn’t leave.
Instead, he lies beside me and pulls me against his chest without asking. One large hand strokes slowly down my back, soothing the places he gripped too hard. His other hand brushes damp hair from my forehead with surprising tenderness.
I lie there stiff at first, my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow down. His skin is warm, slightly damp with sweat. He smells like sex and the faint trace of his cologne. His fingers keep moving in slow circles along my spine, gentle in a way that feels dangerous.
I hate him for this too.
For fucking me like he owns me and then holding me like he cares.
My eyes stay open, and I focus on the rain, on the heavy arm draped across my waist, on the complicated ache between my legs and deeper in my chest.
Zane’s breathing evens out beside me. He stays.
I do not sleep.
7
CELINE
One week in this penthouse,and I have established one thing that belongs to me.
Four o’clock. My hour.
I take it in the armchair by the window in my room with whatever I’m reading, my phone face down. From sixty floors up, the city looks almost peaceful. Cars thread through the streets in silent lines. Sunlight flashes from glass and steel. People hurry toward obligations I don’t have. Diane knows not to knock between four and five unless the building is on fire.
Roman knows because I told him directly on day two when he appeared at my door at four fifteen with a scheduling question that could have waited until morning.
So when Diane knocks at four twenty-three on a Tuesday, I put my book down, and I already know it’s not the building.
