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It’s fire.
It’s pain.
It’s need.
I’m clawing at Lincoln’s scalp, trying to climb his body, gasping and panting and making low, incoherent noises. His large hands are everywhere—sliding over my ass, my hips, my waist, the sides of my breasts—as he kisses me like a starving man.
Then suddenly, his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me away.
I almost stumble as he shoves me back, breaking my hold on him. His hair is wild from my fingers, his face flushed, and his lips swollen from the attack. He blinks at me like he can’t believe what just happened, like he’s not sure how I got here, or how he got here, or who either of us are.
He looks almost… scared.
His gaze shutters as he takes another step away from me, shaking his head. “It’s none of your business who I fucked, Pool Girl. If it was important, I would’ve told you. But you didn’t need to know.”
Then he turns and starts up the stairs, his steps fast and heavy.
Oh no, you fucking don’t.
My mind is still several seconds behind my body, but it doesn’t matter. I’m already moving, barreling up the stairs behind him. Lincoln Black has yanked my emotions around since the very first damn day I met him, and there’s no way I’m letting him have the last word on this.
“I’ll decide what I need to know, you asshole! This isn’t a fucking game! Why couldn’t you just tell me? Huh?” I catch up to him on the top landing and shove at his back. “What were you so scared of? Afraid I’d be jealous of her? Because she got to fuck one of the kings of Linwood Academy? Well, I’ve got news for you, Linc. I don’t give a shit. You can screw your way through the entire cheerleading squad one by one for all I care.”
We’re halfway down the hall to his bedroom when he whirls suddenly, grabbing my arms and slamming me into the wall so hard a painting nearby shakes on its hook. His pupils are dilated, contrasting with the bright amber of his irises, and his lips curl back from his teeth. “I told you, Pool Girl. Stop lying to me.”
I hurl my body against the pressure of his grip, trying to force us away from the wall. But he’s too strong, and he’s using all his weight to pin me. “I’m not lying, you asshole! God, I fucking hate y—”
For the second time, his lips cut off my words, and I was wrong before.
That kiss downstairs? That was fucking gentle.
This is the kind of kiss that steals souls.
His body is pressed against mine, trapping me against the wall, and his lips are a torrent of desire and fucked up cravings I’m about to drown in. He draws my tongue into his mouth, and mine clashes with his as if there’s some way for either of us to win this battle. He smells like musk and spice, and there’s just a hint of something sweet on his breath.
Now that he’s got me pinned, now that he knows I’m not going anywhere, his hands leave my shoulders, sliding down to massage and squeeze my breasts, tugging at my nipples through my bra, sending little shocks of pleasure and pain through me. I whimper into his mouth, and he draws away slightly. We’re both breathing hard, the harsh sounds filling the quiet, dim hallway.
“Tell me to stop, Harlow.” His voice is rough as sandpaper, nearly unrecognizable. It’s nothing like the smooth, confident tenor I’ve come to expect from him. “Tell me to walk away.”
The words I should say sit in my chest as we stare at each other, dazed gazes locked and hands still groping each other possessively.
They sit in my chest, and they stay there.
He waits, giving me time to push him away, time to run. But I don’t move, and as the seconds stretch on, I see the dawning realization in his face that I’m not going to.
A thrill of anticipation, fear, and lust fills me as one large hand slides up my body to grasp my jaw.
“Last chance, Low,” he murmurs.
I’ve lost track of everything. Of how I feel about him. Of how this fight even started. Of what I wanted in the first place.
There’s nothing in the world except his large body holding me against the wall and his amber eyes glowing like twin flames in the dim light.
And then his mouth descends on mine again, claiming another kiss from my already bruised lips. His hands are tearing at my clothes, and I realize with a jolt that mine are doing the same to his. I yank his shirt over his head and rake my fingernails down the warm, silken skin of his arms. He doesn’t even bother taking my shirt all the way off, just tears it down the middle, and the sharp sound of fabric ripping makes my clit throb.
I don’t know why I want this, don’t now why I’m reacting like this. I’ve never had rough sex before, but the harshness of his movements, the bites of pain mixed with pleasure, are making me so fucking wet for him.
His hand is o
