“You want it rough?” he growls, forehead pressed to mine like he’s trying to crawl inside my skull. “Say it again.”
“I want you to hurt me.”
He lunges, mouth on mine in a collision of teeth and spit and tongue, and then he’s inside me in a single thrust that knocks the breath out of my lungs.
My back bows off the wall. My legs shake. I shatter like a thrown wineglass on concrete.
And he doesn’t fucking stop.
One hand on my throat, warm and possessive, like he needs to feel my pulse against his palm to prove I’m alive and his. The other grips my thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, yanking me higher, wider, taking everything he wants as he slams into me over and over.
He’s fucking like he hates himself. Or he thinks if he splits me open wide enough, maybe something soft will finally crawl out.
The tile is freezing. The water’s still hot. My spine stings from the wall, and everything is friction and ache and noise. Skin slapping. Breath snarling. Wet gasping chaos in a porcelain cage.
“You think I can’t be sweet?” he hisses into my neck, teeth grazing just enough to make me twitch. “You think I don’t give a shit?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. All I can do is moan as he fucks me deeper.
“I’m trying,” he snarls, jaw tight, every word a lash. “But you don’t make it easy.”
“Good,” I pant, clawing at his back, nails dragging hard enough to draw blood. “Fuck you. Keep trying.”
He fucking does.
He doesn’t stop, not when I bite his throat, not when my knees give out, when my voice goes raw, when I’ve got nothing left but sobs and tremors and the high, hysterical laugh of a girl absolutely unmade.
He holds me up with sheer rage and muscle, fucking me like it’s the only thing he’s still good at. Like if he ruins me perfectly, maybe he’ll be worth keeping.
His grip bruises. His thrusts go ragged. His mouth is everywhere, my throat, my jaw, the corner of my lips like he can’t decide if he wants to devour or apologize.
“Look at you,” he groans, forehead pressed to mine again, slick with sweat and guilt and want. “Fucking wrecked. You love it. You love when I break you, don’t you?”
I try to answer but it’s just a whimper, my mouth open and gasping, my body bucking helplessly under his. His rhythm stutters. He growls and slams back in harder, chasing the edge.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this. All noise and need,” he hisses, voice cracking at the edges. “No one else sees you like I do. No one else gets this.”
He bites at my shoulder, not gentle. His hands shake.
“Fuck, I hate you,” he whispers, thrusts losing precision. “Hate that I can’t stop wanting you. Hate that you fucking shine when I drag you through hell.”
My legs convulse. My vision goes white around the edges. I think I might come again but it’s more like falling. Drowning. Melting into the center of the earth.
The water goes cold, he starts to shatter with me, his shoulders shaking now.
But he doesn’t stop until we’ve burned every ounce of hardness out of each other and all that’s left is bruises and spit and the sound of our hearts crashing into each other.
The moment I start to come down, he catches me.
Not a grand gesture. Not with finesse. But with this sudden, desperate panic in the way his arms wrap around me, like he’s afraid I’ll hit the floor and break.
He sinks to his knees with me still wrapped around him. My back hits the cold tile, his chest against mine, both of us soaked and shaking and too wrecked to pretend we’re not fucking ruined by this.
His mouth presses to my temple. A shaky, silent kiss. Then another, on the bridge of my nose. Then one on my cheek. Too gentle. Too guilty.
“Shit,” he says, voice gone low and hoarse and human. “Did I? Fuck, did I go too far?”
“No.” It comes out a whisper. “You didn’t.”
