26. Sloane
Sloane
I cross the space between us so fast the first impact drives him back a step.
He lets me shove him once, then twice, and on the third, he catches my wrists and twists, not hard enough to injure, but hard enough to remind me who I'm dealing with.
My back hits the padded wall, and the sound tears a rough breath out of my chest.
“There,” Idris says against my ear. “That’s the part you keep trying to pour into the kitchen.”
“Don’t analyze me right now.”
“Then stop acting like a case study.” His forearm presses across my chest, pinning me in place while his knee slides between mine.
His eyes are close enough for me to see the anger he kept out of the kitchen.
“You aren't the only one who wants to break his hand every time he reaches for the language to move her.”
The words hit the exact place I needed them.
I surge up and kiss him. It isn't gentle, but it is honest, and Idris catches the back of my head and gives the force back to me, mouth hard, teeth sharp, the whole of him a wall I can finally push against without wondering what will be written down afterward.
My hands find his shoulders, his ribs, the hot line of his spine. He drags me away from the wall only to put me down on the mat with his weight over me and his hand at my throat, steady enough to hold and careful enough to let me breathe.
“Again,” he says, breath rough against my mouth. “Color.”
“Green.” I grip his wrist, not to move it, only to feel the strength there. “Idris, please.”
His face changes at that. The anger stays, but it goes focused and intimate, his control closing around both of us until the noise in my head finally starts to narrow.
I shove once against the weight holding me down. Idris doesn’t shift, and the steadiness of him gives the rage somewhere honest to land.
Idris keeps me pinned to the mat with his full weight, one hand still at my throat, the other braced beside my head.
His knee stays firm between my thighs, holding me open and still.
I surge up against him once, testing the hold, and he answers by pressing harder, forcing the air from my lungs in a short, sharp exhale that leaves my vision edged in white.
“Color,” he says again, voice low and absolute.
“Green.” The word comes out gritted between my teeth.
My body is still full of the kitchen—Garrett’s calm voice cutting everything into manageable pieces, Callie’s sudden stillness, the way Theo flinched when I growled—and the rut wants to turn all of it into motion, into force, into something I can break against a wall.
Idris feels every bit of it. He always does.
“Ask,” he says.
I hate that he makes me do it. I hate that it works. “Fuck me.”
Idris’ eyes darken. He shifts just enough to shove my sleep pants down my hips with one hand, never fully releasing the pressure at my throat.
I kick them the rest of the way off, the fabric catching around one ankle until he reaches down and yanks it free.
He does the same with his own, shoving them down just far enough, and then the heat of him is against me—hard, already slick at the tip, pressing against the cleft of my ass with deliberate weight.
I try to push back onto him too fast, chasing the burn, the force, anything that will quiet the noise. He stops me with a hand on my hip, fingers digging in hard enough that I know I’ll feel the bruises tomorrow.
“No.” His voice is low and absolute. “You wait.”
“Idris—”
“Color.”
“Green, goddamn it—”
He works two fingers into me first, rough and efficient, no slick beyond what little he gathers, stretching me open with the kind of focus that leaves no room for argument.
The burn is immediate and perfect. I groan into it, hips jerking, but he holds me down with the forearm across my chest and keeps the pace deliberate, scissoring his fingers deeper until the resistance eases and the stretch turns into something my body starts to want.
He adds a third finger without asking, watching my face the entire time, and the pressure makes my cock jump hard against my stomach.
“Breathe,” he orders.
I drag in a ragged breath. He curls his fingers and finds the place that makes my thighs shake, working it with short, ruthless strokes until I’m pushing back onto his hand despite myself. Only then does he withdraw, leaving me empty and aching.
He lines himself up. The blunt head of his cock presses against me, and for a second he just holds there, making me feel the threat of it.
“Ask again.”
“Fuck me,” I snarl. “Idris—please—”
The first thrust drives the air out of me completely.
Idris buries himself in one long, relentless push until his hips are flush against me, and the stretch is so deep it borders on too much.
I claw at his shoulders, at the mat, anywhere I can reach.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls back almost all the way and slams forward again, setting a hard, punishing rhythm that forces every thought out of my head except the solid weight of him and the way my body has no choice but to take it.
The wet sound of skin on skin fills the gym.
The mat shifts under us with every thrust. Sweat is already running down my temple.
I try to meet him, to turn the force into something I control, to fuck myself back onto him and reclaim some of the power, but he pins my wrists above my head with one hand and keeps me exactly where he wants me.
“You don’t get to rush this,” he says, voice tight with his own restraint. “You stay here. You feel it. Color.”
“Green—” The word breaks on a moan as he changes the angle and drives against the place that makes my vision white out. “Fuck—Idris—”
He doesn’t let up. Every time the rage starts to climb again—every time Garrett’s reasonable voice or Callie’s quiet or Theo’s wide eyes flicker through me—Idris answers with another deep thrust, another command, another demand that I stay inside my own body instead of the kitchen.
His free hand slides under my hip and lifts me slightly, changing the angle so every stroke drags harder against that spot inside me.
My cock is trapped between my stomach and the mat, dragging with every movement, the friction sharp enough to hurt in the best way.
“Breathe,” he orders again.
I try. The breath comes out broken. He fucks me through it, the pace almost brutal now, the kind of force that leaves bruises and silences everything else.
When I start to spiral toward release too fast he slows deliberately, holding himself deep and still until the edge recedes, making me feel every pulse of him inside me.
“Not yet,” he says. “You don’t get to finish until you stop trying to turn this into a strategy.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His hand tightens at my wrists. “You’re still in that kitchen. You’re still calculating how to win. Come back here.”
He starts moving again, slower this time but just as deep, forcing me to feel every inch. I try to rush it once more and he stops completely, buried to the hilt, waiting.
“Color.”
“Green.” My voice is wrecked. “Please—Idris—I need—”
“What do you need?”
“You. Harder. Please.”
He gives it to me. The pace turns relentless again, the full force of his body driving into mine, and this time he reaches down and wraps a hand around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts—tight, unforgiving, perfectly timed.
The dual sensation rips a broken sound out of my throat.
My wrists strain against his hold. My hips try to buck and find no leverage.
“That’s it,” he says, low and rough against my ear. “Stay with me. Color.”
“Green—fuck—green—”
He keeps me there, pinned and open and taken, until the rut finally has nowhere left to go except through him.
The release hits like a breaking wave—violent, full-body, my cock pulsing hard in his fist as I come across the mat in thick stripes, every muscle locking tight around him.
The sound I make is guttural and raw. Idris fucks me through it without slowing, dragging the orgasm out until I’m shaking and oversensitive beneath him.
Only then does he let himself follow. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside me with a low, controlled groan, his forehead pressed hard to the back of my shoulder.
I feel every pulse of him, the heat of it, the way his weight settles heavier as the tension leaves his body.
He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays over me, one hand sliding from my wrists to the nape of my neck, the other braced near my ribs, holding me down through the first long wave of trembling.
My breath comes in harsh, uneven pulls. The sharp, threatening edge of the rut begins to drain, leaving something tired and hot and manageable in its place.
His weight keeps me from floating too far out of my own skin.
The marks of his fingers on my hips and the ache of him still buried inside me are the only things that feel real enough to trust.
When it finally burns down, Idris doesn't move away from me. He stays where he is, heavy and breathing hard, one hand still at the back of my neck like he knows the rage hasn't disappeared just because my body has spent itself.
When it finally burns down, Idris doesn’t move away from me. He stays heavy over my back with one hand at my neck and the other spread near my ribs while his cock softens inside me.
The air system hums overhead until my breathing falls into time with it. My heart keeps slamming, but it has a rhythm now. The rage is still there, and it has edges I can hold.
Idris finally shifts onto his side, dragging me with him because apparently even after putting me on the floor, he has opinions about aftercare. His hand cups the back of my neck, and his thumb moves once, twice, slow enough to make my eyes burn.
“I hate him,” I say.