I should’ve felt rage. And it was there, sharp in my chest, curled tight behind my ribs. But under it—deeper and more disturbing—was heat. Shameful, relentless heat that throbbed inside me like a second heartbeat. Every time I breathed, it pressed low. Insistent. Hungry.
Eventually I peeled myself out of bed. My ankle ached in a slow, dull rhythm, but I didn’t care. I needed the water. I needed it to strip him off me. His scent, his sweat, the ghosts of hishands. I needed silence. And distance. And anything that didn’t feel like the press of him against my skin.
I didn’t bother with the lights. I undressed as I walked to the bathroom, each article of clothing peeled off with a kind of mechanical detachment, like I could drop the memory with the fabric. The faint glow from the bedroom lamp cast everything in shadow and gold. I stepped in front of the mirror and froze.
Bruises bloomed across my collarbone like ink stains. Bite marks flared red against the pale column of my neck. Fingerprints on my hips, dark and perfect, proof that he’d held me like something he owned. My hand rose, trembling, and I touched one, not even meaning to. And then I felt it—low and deep. That sharp pulse between my legs. A reflex I couldn’t silence.
I hated it. Hated the way just looking at the damage made my body throb with memory.
He’d broken into my house. Violated my space. Fingered me while I slept. Touched me like I already belonged to him. And my body had soaked the sheets for him.
He kidnapped me.
And then he'd taken it further. He’d taken me. Not with tenderness, not with permission. With force. With control. With a slow, brutal rhythm that demanded surrender. He’d made me beg—not with threats, but with the unbearable truth of what my body craved. He’d pulled it out of me with every stroke. And I gave it. I gave him everything while telling myself I hated him. That I would never forgive this. That I would never want more.
But now? Now I stood naked and trembling, guilt tangled with anticipation.
The door creaked open. I didn’t need to look. I felt it in the shift of the air. The pause before the approach.
I met his reflection in the mirror just as he entered the bathroom. He didn’t say a word. Just leaned against thedoorframe, eyes dragging over every inch of me—every bruise, every mark, every place he’d claimed.
He stepped towards the shower, turning the water on without taking his eyes off me.
Then he peeled off his shirt, slow and unhurried. Muscle stretched beneath inked skin, each motion intentional—confident in a way that made my breath catch despite myself. He didn’t rush. He never did. He unhooked his belt with the same lazy arrogance, eyes locked to mine through the mirror. The sound of leather sliding free was sharp, deliberate. He let his pants fall, stepped out of them, and stood there—bare, unapologetic.
My eyes dropped before I could stop them. His cock was thick, already hard, resting heavy and proud between his hips. The kind of hard that wasn’t just arousal—it was promise. Possession. Memory. My breath hitched, traitorous and sharp.
He saw it. Of course he did. A knowing smirk tugged at his mouth as he stepped closer, not stopping until his body brushed mine. I felt the heat of him before he even touched me.
"You’ve been thinking about it," he murmured, voice rough. "Thinking about how it felt. How deep I got. How hard I made you come."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. My silence screamed louder than any denial.
He reached between my thighs without warning. Two fingers, slow and certain, slid through my folds, parting me, slicking through my arousal like he had every right. I gasped, my knees weakening.
He withdrew his hand and held his fingers up in the dim light, watching the way they glistened. Then he pressed them to one of the bruises on my hip, smearing the shine of my own need across the dark mark he’d left on me.
"I did this," he murmured, lips close to my ear, "so now I’m going to take care of it."
I turned toward him, jaw tight. "Take care of me? That what you’re calling it now?"
He smiled, maddening and arrogant. "You’re still standing here. Still wet."
"Still regretting not punching you."
He leaned in, brushing his lips near my jaw without touching. "But not walking away."
I grit my teeth. "Because I don’t trust you behind me."
His hand returned to my waist. "Good. Keep your eyes on me then."
"Go to hell."
"Ladies first."
He guided me back a step, and I let him. The glass fogged behind me as the shower sprayed in full steam. He nudged me toward it.
"You need the heat," he said. "Your muscles are tight."
