His laugh was broken. He opened the door, paused. “You’re a fucking idiot Killian,” he snapped, then got out, and I watched him until the door closed before climbing out and following him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked.
“Making sure you’re inside okay, and then, I’ll leave,” I said.
The apartment was empty—no sign of Rio—and I glanced around at the evidence two men lived here. The apartment was small but efficiently laid out. Three doors branched off the main space—one open to reveal a bathroom with white tiles and a shower curtain that had seen better days, the other two likely leading to bedrooms. The lounge area was compact, with two overstuffed sofas arranged around a scratched coffee table, forming a rough square with alarge TV in one corner still glowing faintly with standby light. A laptop sat open on the dining table beside a half-eaten bag of chips and a tangle of phone chargers. The air held a faint scent of smoke and cleaning products, as though someone had tried to scrub out the chaos but hadn’t finished. It was lived-in, cluttered, but not messy. Practical, with no attempt at decoration or warmth. A space designed for function, not comfort. I clocked the exits, the layout, the blind spots. Old habits. Always assessing, always planning escape routes, even now.
“You leaving now?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “I could stay a while.”
He shoved the door shut trapping me in with him, his fists twisted in my shirt, and he yanked me forward.
And kissed me.
Hard. Desperate. All fury and hurt. His fingers clawed at my skin. There was nothing gentle in it. Just heat and violence and everything he didn’t know how to say. I didn’t want to hold him, didn’t know what hurt, but I bit his lip, and he moaned, half pain, half want. He shoved me back into the couch, hands under my shirt.
“Hold me,” he snapped, and, careful of the bandages, I held him.
He yanked my shirt off. Tore it, I think. Didn’t care. His hands shook as he scraped them down my back.
“I need it hard,” he gasped. “I need—fuck, Killian, I need to feel something.”
I kissed him again, deeper this time, but still roughly. “You feel this?”
I grabbed his hips and dragged him toward me. His head tipped back. Eyes fluttered. God, he was so fucking raw.
We stripped fast, frantic. His pants hit the floor. I had enough sense left to grab the lube, slick my fingers. I pushed one in, and he gasped, clenching around me, body jerking like I’d hit a live wire.
“More,” he ground out.
I gave him two. Three. He took it all, his hands fisting in the cushions, jaw clenched, breath ragged. He didn’t want slow. He wanted to burn.
So, I gave it to him.
I pushed in, burying myself in one rough thrust. He cried out—high and sharp—but didn’t stop me. He pulled me closer instead, legs locked tight around my waist as if he’d fall apart if I let go.
We rocked hard and fast. The couch shifted. Our skin slapped. My fingers dug bruises into his hips. He bit my shoulder, dragged his nails down my back. Hewanted it brutal. Punishing. Needed to be used as if he didn’t deserve anything different. I refused to hurt him more. I was so careful of his shoulder and his burns and slowed everything down, then, mid-thrust, I kissed him. Slow. Deep. He froze, as though it broke something in him.
Then, he shattered.
He came first, body convulsing, a sharp gasp tore from his throat. I followed, fast, buried so deep in him I didn’t know where I ended and he began. My heart pounded. My whole body ached.
But I didn’t move.
He was breathing as if he’d run ten miles. Face turned away. Silent.
I pulled out, carefully. I twisted one hand in his hair, the other over the thin stretch of his back. He didn’t stop me, not even when I gathered him in my arms, not even when I kissed the side of his head and whispered his name.
He didn’t cry, but he was shaking, and his breath hitched as if he wanted to scream and couldn’t.
So, I held him.
Held him as if he mattered. As if he wasn’t smoke and fury and pain wrapped in skin.
And he let me.
For a minute, he let me stay.
