15. Zaria
ZARIA
Idon't let myself think. Don't give myself time to second-guess or analyze or remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I surge forward and kiss him.
His mouth opens under mine immediately, like he's been waiting for this, like every second of the past five days has been building toward this exact moment.
The kiss is harsh, violent—all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger that's been simmering between us for too long.
My hands fist harder in his henley, yanking him closer until there's no space left between our bodies, and he groans into my mouth in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
This isn't soft. Isn't tender or romantic or any of those things people write about in books.
This is raw need, the kind that bypasses logic and goes straight to instinct.
I kiss him like I'm trying to consume him, like I can somehow pull him inside me through sheer force of will, and he meets me with equal intensity.
His hand slides from my neck to tangle in my hair, gripping tight enough to sting, and the sharp pleasure-pain makes me gasp against his mouth.
He uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that's obscene, that makes me think about what else he can do with that mouth.
I've been fighting this for weeks. Fighting the pull toward him, the way he makes me feel things I've spent years learning not to feel.
Fighting the reality that Greer Martin crawled under my skin and made a home there, that his gifts and his violence and his goddamn green-gold eyes have become necessary in ways I can't afford.
But right now, pressed against cold brick with his body pinning me in place and his mouth claiming mine like he owns it, I'm done fighting.
Done pretending this isn't exactly what I want.
Done telling myself there are a million reasons I shouldn't let someone like him—clean, educated, from a world so far from mine it might as well be a different planet—get close enough to hurt me.
Because Greer isn't using me. Isn't manipulating me or playing games or positioning himself for some larger play I'm not seeing. He's just here, desperate and dark and twisted in ways that match my own damage, wanting me with an intensity that should scare me but instead makes me feel powerful.
He wants me. All of me—the violence and the darkness and the sharp edges that cut everyone who gets too close.
And I want to let him in.
His free hand slides down my side, grips my ass hard enough to bruise, and suddenly he's lifting me like I weigh nothing.
My back hits the brick wall with force that would hurt if I cared about anything except the way Greer's hips pin mine in place, the hard length of him pressing against me through too many layers of clothing.
"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth, the word half groan, half prayer.
I wrap my legs around his waist automatically, using the leverage to grind against him, and the friction sends sparks racing up my spine.
My hands dive into his hair, fisting the strands and pulling hard enough that his head tilts back, exposing the line of his throat.
I bite down on the exposed skin, not gentle, marking him in a way that's pure possession.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden but I don't fight it. Greer gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and I can feel how hard he is through his jeans. Can feel the way his whole body trembles with restraint, like he's barely holding himself back from just taking what he wants.
"Zaria." My name comes out wrecked, desperate. His fingers dig into my thighs hard enough that I know there will be bruises tomorrow, physical proof of this moment written on my skin. "Fuck, I need?—"
"I know." I pull his hair harder, making him look at me. His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and there's something feral in his expression that makes my pulse race. "I need you too."
The admission should feel like weakness. Like giving away power I can't afford to lose. But instead it feels like relief, like finally letting go of control I've been clinging to because I was too scared to trust anyone with the softer parts of myself.
I kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense. Pour everything I can't say out loud into the slide of my tongue against his, the way my teeth catch his bottom lip, the small sounds I make when his hips grind against mine in exactly the right way.
My body is on fire. Every nerve ending singing with need, with the desperate ache to feel him inside me, to know what it's like when Greer Martin finally stops holding back and takes what we both want.
But we're in an alley. Behind Marco's bar where anyone could walk out and see us, where my reputation and my authority could be compromised if someone catches me like this—desperate and wanting and completely out of control.
I don't care.
Let them see. Let them know that Viper Bennett chose this man, claimed him, marked him as hers in ways that go deeper than violence or territory or any of the other currencies we trade in this world.
Still. We need more than this. More than grinding against each other through clothes like teenagers who can't find privacy.
I push at his chest, breaking the kiss with effort that feels monumental. "Put me down."
He hesitates, his grip on my thighs tightening like he's not ready to let go, but then he's lowering me carefully until my feet hit the ground.
The loss of contact makes me want to whimper, which is ridiculous.
I don't whimper. I'm not some delicate thing that falls apart without physical connection.
But apparently Greer Martin makes me into someone who does exactly that.
My hands go to my pants, fingers working the button and zipper with efficiency born from necessity.
The cold air hits my skin as I shove them down my hips along with my underwear, kicking them aside without ceremony.
I'm exposed now, vulnerable in ways I never let myself be, but the way Greer's eyes darken as he looks at me makes vulnerability feel like power.
"Your turn." My voice comes out rough, commanding. "Lose them."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hands fly to his jeans, unfastening them with shaking fingers that betray exactly how close to the edge he is.
I watch his face as he pushes them down just enough—the way his jaw clenches, the flush spreading across his cheekbones, the barely controlled hunger in his expression.
Then his cock is free, hard and perfect and exactly what I need, and my mouth goes dry looking at it.
"Fuck, Zaria." He's staring at me like I'm something holy and profane at the same time. Like he can't quite believe this is happening. "You're so?—"
"Come here." I don't let him finish whatever he was going to say. Don't want pretty words or compliments or anything except him inside me right fucking now.
He moves forward and I'm already reaching for him, hands gripping his shoulders as he picks me up again.
My back hits the brick wall for the second time, but this time there's nothing between us except intention.
This time when his hips align with mine, I can feel the hot length of him sliding through my folds, teasing, not entering but close enough that it makes my breath catch.
"Jesus." The word comes out strangled as he rolls his hips, his cock dragging through my wetness in a way that's perfect and torture. "You feel?—"
"Don't stop." My nails dig into his shoulders, head falling back against brick as pleasure sparks through me. "Keep going."
He does. Sets up a rhythm that's slow and deliberate, grinding against me in a way that hits my clit with every stroke, building pressure that makes my thighs tremble where they're wrapped around his waist. His face is buried in my neck, breath hot against my skin, and I can feel the way his whole body is coiled tight with restraint.
He's holding back. Waiting for permission. Being good even though I can feel how desperately he wants to just slam inside me and take what we both need.
The realization makes something warm bloom in my chest, something dangerous that feels too much like affection.
"I knew you'd feel this good," I breathe against his ear, letting my voice drop into that tone I use when I want to drive him crazy. "I've been thinking about this since you had your fingers buried deep inside me. And you've done the same, haven't you?"
He groans, hips stuttering in their rhythm. "Every night. Fuck, every single night."
"Tell me." I pull his hair, making him look at me. His eyes are glazed, desperate, beautiful. "What did you think about?"
"This." He grinds harder, making me gasp. "Being inside you. Feeling you come on my cock. Making you say my name when you—" He cuts off with another groan as I roll my hips to meet his movement.
"Such a perfect boy for me." The praise makes him shudder, makes his rhythm falter for a second before he recovers. "So hard. So desperate to give me what I need."
"Yes." The word comes out emphatic, reverent. "Anything. Fuck, Zaria, anything you want."
The pressure building low in my stomach is becoming unbearable. I need more than this teasing friction, need him inside me filling me up until there's no space left for doubt or fear or any of the reasons this is complicated.
"Be a good boy," I tell him, voice rough with need. "Stretch me with your cock."
He freezes for half a second, like his brain needs time to process what I just said. Then he's shifting his angle, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and we both groan at the contact.
"Please," he breathes, and I'm not sure if he's asking permission or begging me to take him, but it doesn't matter because I want this as much as he does.
I nod once, and that's all the permission he needs.