Chapter 13 #3
“You like this,” I growl against his ear. “You like me taking what I want.”
For a moment he just makes these broken sounds that go straight to my gut.
Then he says, “No,” with a shake of his head.
“Liar.”
I yank my fingers out of him, grab him by the hair, and drag him toward the showers. He stumbles, legs unsteady, but doesn’t fight me. I slam him face first against the tiled wall near one of the showerheads.
Water streams down from above, hot and relentless, splashing his shoulders and mixing with the oil on his skin.
Steam rises around us, turning the air thick and humid.
The spray creates patterns that shift and flow down his back as I dive straight back into him, working him open.
His breathing has gone ragged, desperate.
Each plunge of my fingers draws fresh sounds from his throat.
The power is intoxicating. Having this untouchable man falling apart under my touch. Seeing him lose that iron control he wears like armor.
I pull my fingers out abruptly. He gasps at the sudden emptiness, body clenching around nothing.
Before I can think, before I can talk myself out of it, my hand moves to my own cock. Hard as stone, aching with need. Fuck, have I ever been this desperate? I steal the remainder of the oil that coats his body to slick it.
I press it up against him.
Pause, just for a moment, so he knows what’s coming.
Pause, to give him time to instead smash my head into the floor.
“What’s wrong, birdie?” he snarls. “Forgotten how to fuck a man?”
That’s all the encouragement I need.
I drive all the way into him in one brutal thrust.
The sound he makes—raw, shocked, edged with pain—sends fire through my veins. His whole body goes rigid against the wall, muscles wrapping around me like a vise.
I can’t fucking breathe. He’s tight. So fucking tight, with his body fighting the invasion even as it yields to my size. The heat of him surrounds me, slick and perfect, his bare skin burning against mine where we’re joined.
For a moment I’m lost in it. The feeling of being fully seated inside him, of having this untouchable bastard split open on my cock. It’s been so long since I was inside another man—half a year, maybe longer. The sensation threatens to undo me completely.
I almost forget what I’m doing. Almost whisper sweet things into his ear, tell him he’s being so good for me, that he feels like heaven, that he’s perfect—
Instead, I leave no time for him to adjust. I give him the exact same amount of mercy he showed me today.
I pull back almost all the way, then slam into him again.
I give him everything I’ve got, channeling weeks of rage and humiliation and want into each vicious thrust. His hands scrabble against the wall, both palms flat against the tiles as he braces himself for the onslaught.
The wet sounds of our bodies bounce around the room. Water still streams down around us, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to this—the drag of his body against mine, the way he takes everything I give him.
He makes another sound, half moan, half protest.
My hand comes down hard on his thigh with a sharp crack. “I knew you’d be a fucking slut for my cock.”
Another noise escapes him, louder this time. Dangerous in the echoing shower room.
My hand clamps over his mouth, fingers pushing between his lips. “Shut the fuck up. Unless you want them all to come in here and see their captain being a dirty slut.”
His tongue darts out, licking at my fingers as if they’ve been dipped in sugar.
The sensation shoots straight to my spine, makes me ram into him harder than before.
I hold nothing back now, giving him every ounce of fury I’ve carried since day one of this place, multiplied tenfold by his cruel betrayal.
The tiles are slippery beneath our feet as our bodies collide. Marco’s muffled sounds vibrate against my palm as I drive into him again and again, lost in the rhythm of taking what I want from this man who’s taken everything from me.
Water streams down his back, mixing with sweat and oil, making everything slick and desperate and primal.
Like we’re animals rutting in the wild instead of two men fueled only by hate.
The thought makes me fuck him harder, deeper, until I’m hitting that spot inside him that makes his whole body arch like he’s been struck by lightning.
My hand clamps harder over his mouth as his body starts to shake. The tremors run through him like an earthquake, building from somewhere deep inside. His breathing turns ragged against my palm, desperate little puffs of air through his nose.
And then he’s coming.
Untouched.
Just from my cock buried inside him, just from me using his body. His whole frame goes rigid, muscles clenching around me so tight I see stars. A muffled cry escapes through my fingers—broken, needy, completely wrecked.
I suddenly want to hear them crystal clear, these sounds of him.
I remove my hand from his mouth.
And then—
“Robin.”
My name. He cries my name as he spills himself against the tiles, and something inside me cracks clean in half. The sound of it—desperate, vulnerable, like a prayer torn from his throat—hits me harder than any punch he’s ever thrown.
Despite everything, despite the hate burning through my veins, I can’t help but preen.
I did this to him. Made him fall apart with nothing but my cock.
I keep driving into him, drawing out those breathy little sounds. His body shudders with aftershocks, oversensitive now, each thrust wringing fresh whimpers from his throat.
My hand slides down the dips and valleys of his muscular body, fingers trailing through the warm mess dripping down his thigh. The feel of it—slick and hot and proof of what I’ve done to him—is enough to push me over the edge.
The urge to taste it, to bring my fingers to my mouth, hits. I resist it. Barely.
Instead, I drive as deep as possible, holding his hips with bruising force. My fingers dig into his flesh, marking him, claiming him in a way that will leave purple fingerprints for days. The thought sends me spiraling into my own release.
I come buried inside him, grinding against his ass. Heat floods through me, white-hot and devastating, wiping out every thought except the feel of his body wrapped around mine.
If we were lovers, this would be the part where his head would loll back against my chest. Where I’d reward him with gentle kisses, murmur praise into his ear, tell him how wonderful he was.
If we were lovers, I’d hold him close while we both caught our breath. Run my hands through his hair. Clean him up with tender touches.
If we were lovers—
But we’re not lovers.
We’re fighters.
“Remember this moment the next time your emperor is fucking you,” I manage, shocked by my own venom. “Remember me.”
He makes a horrible sound—almost like a cry of distress—and I want to take the words back. Want to swallow them before they can poison the air between us, irrevocably.
Instead, I pull out of him. Harsh. Rough. He winces as I withdraw, leaving him empty and dripping.
“Remember how easily I made you come.”
I step back, watching my release leak out of him and mix with the shower water at our feet.
“Remember how my cock felt inside you.”
Marco’s legs shake as he tries to stay upright against the wall. I hope he’ll be sore for days after this. Just like my throat will be.
“Because that’s the last time you’ll ever get it.” I grab a towel from the rack, not bothering to look at him. “You won’t be getting me. Ever again.”
I force myself to walk away.
Each step echoes off the tiles, final as gunshots.
And I don’t look back.
Even though every instinct screams at me to turn around. To see if he’s still slumped against the wall, still shaking. To check if those sounds he’s making are from pain or something else.
But I don’t look back.
Because if I do, I might see something in his face that would crack what’s left of my resolve. Might see him looking as wrecked as I feel inside.
And I can’t afford that.
Not when Marco made it clear exactly what I mean to him.
Nothing.