She clung to me, her breath coming in sharp little gasps every time I bottomed out. Her legs wrapped around me, heels digging into my back, pulling me closer like she couldn’t get enough. Like I was the one she needed. The thought made me snarl, made me fuck her harder, my hips slamming into hers with a force that should’ve hurt. But she just took it, took me, her nails raking down my back, her mouth finding mine in messy, desperate kisses.
I could feel her getting close again, her body tightening around me, her breath hitching. I should’ve slowed down. Should’ve made it last. But I was too far gone, my control shattered, my discipline burned to ash. I wanted to mark her. Wanted to leave her so wrecked she’d never forget this. Never forget me.
Her back arched as she came, her body clamping down around me so tight I saw stars. I buried my face in her neck, bit down on her shoulder to muffle the groan tearing out of me as I followed her over the edge. My release hit me like a fucking freight train, stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything but the feel of her beneath me, the scent of her skin, the way her pulse raced under my lips.
I collapsed on top of her, my weight pressing her into the mattress. Her arms wrapped around me, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back like she thought this was something tender. Like she thought I was something good.
It made me sick.
I rolled off her before I could do something worse—like stay. Like pretend this meant anything. The cold air hit my skin, but I barely felt it. My chest heaved, my heart hammering like I’d just finished a fight on the ice, not fucked a girl half my age in her shitty little apartment.
She reached for me.
I flinched away.
Her hand froze mid-air, her eyes wide, hurt flashing across her face before she could hide it. Good. Let her see what a mistake this was. Let her hate me for it.
I sat up, scrubbed a hand over my face. My cock was already softening, the high of release replaced by a crushing weight in my gut. I could still taste her on my lips. Still feel her under my hands.
And I hated it.
I stood, grabbed my clothes from the floor. Dressed in sharp, jerky movements, like if I moved fast enough, I could outrun what I’d just done.
I froze halfway through pulling my shirt on.
Blood. Not much. Just a small smear against the cheap white sheets where she'd been lying.
My chest went tight. Too tight. I couldn't breathe.
She followed my gaze. Saw what I saw. Her face went scarlet, and she scrambled to pull the blanket over it, over herself, curling into a ball like she could make herself disappear.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't—I should've told you?—"
I dropped the shirt. Moved back to the bed before I could stop myself. Sat on the edge. Close enough to touch her, but not touching. Not yet.
"Look at me."
She shook her head, face buried in the pillow.
"Olivia." My voice came out rougher than I meant. "Look at me."
She turned her head just enough. Eyes wet. Terrified. Like she thought I'd be disgusted. Like she thought I'd leave.
I should leave. But that blood—that proof—it did something to me I didn't want to name. Something dark. Possessive. Wrong. She'd been untouched. Completely. And I'd been the one to?—
Heat flooded through me. Sharp and brutal and utterly unwelcome.
My cock stirred despite everything. Despite the guilt. Despite knowing I'd just ruined her in a way I could never take back.
I wanted to touch the sheets. Wanted to see the evidence again. Wanted to feel that sick, primal satisfaction settle deeper into my bones.
Mine.
The word pulsed through my skull like a drumbeat.
First. Only. Mine.
I hated myself for it. Hated that the shame twisting in my gut was mixed with something hotter. Something that made me want to push her back down and do it again. Slower this time. Make sure she felt every second of what it meant to belong to me.
