Page 72 of Thorne
It comes out low and rough, dragged from somewhere deep, like he didn't mean to say it out loud and couldn't stop it anyway.
He steps inside. The door slams shut behind him with a sharp crack that echoes off the concrete, sealing us back into the same space that already knows what we are in here.
He looks at me like that—like he's already lost whatever fight he came in here trying to win.
I push to my feet slowly, deliberate in every inch of it. No rush. No hesitation. The shift in my body is obvious, the aftershock of last night carried in the way I straighten, the way I roll my shoulders back, the way I don't look away from him for even a second.
I close the distance first.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
Enough for the air between us to change. Enough for his breath to hitch—barely there, but I catch it. Enough for that flicker in his eyes to turn darker, heavier, something closer to breaking than control.
His hand twitches.
He steps into my personal radius, tactical gear creaking, a wall of jagged, kinetic energy.
"Fuck it." That's all the warning I get.
Then he's moving.
Fast. Decided. Done pretending. Whatever restraint he walked in with snaps clean, the tension in his body shifting from held back to unleashed in a single, decisive second.
His grip locks onto me, hauling me forward, dragging me flush against him like he's done fighting the pull, done denying whatever this is. The force of it rocks me into his chest, but I don't resist. I rise into it, meeting him halfway, my hands coming up to brace against him, then fisting in his shirt instead of pushing him away.
His breath hits mine, hot and uneven.
The same volatile heat from last night—sharper, faster, like we both know exactly where this leads and neither of us is willing to step away from it.
His fingers weave into my hair, a brutal anchor that yanks my head back until my spine hits the cinder block. The jar vibrates through my skull. He isn't looking for mercy; his eyes are a dark, starving fire. Before I can draw a breath to answer the silent challenge in his gaze, he crashes his mouth against mine.
It isn't a kiss; it's a collision. It tastes of coffee, desperation, and the bitter edge of a man who has lost a fight with himself. He devours me, his tongue a blunt instrument, forcing my lips open with a territorial hunger that leaves no room for anything but the heat. I met him with the same frantic energy, my teethscraping his lip, my hands clutching the rough nylon of his vest as if I could pull him through my skin.
"You know what I did when I left here last night?" Thorne's breath is hot against my mouth, his voice a jagged rasp. "What you made me do? I believed I could walk away. I believed I could close the door on you and be done. But I couldn't. I fucked my hand twice in the dark, thinking about you pressed against this wall. It's all I can fucking think about."
I don't flinch. I lean into the pressure of his hand, my own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "You weren't the only one who had a sleepless night," I rasp, my voice a jagged edge. "I spent it counting the minutes until the lock turned. Waiting."
His jaw tightens, a flash of pure, redirected rage crossing his features before he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my borrowed sweats and strips them down my legs in one violent motion. I step out of them, my knees trembling, the cold air of the cell a sharp contrast to the furnace of his body.
He doesn't tell me to get down. He pushes me down, his hand heavy on my shoulder until I'm on my knees.
The metallic slide of his belt unbuckling is the only sound in the room, followed by the rasp of the zipper on his jeans. He reaches inside, his hand large and calloused, and the raw, pulsing reality of him is right there, inches from my face.
I don't wait for him to force me.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the heat of him, and let my hand explore the length of him, the skin smooth and tight. I run my palm down the shaft, feeling the weight of him, before reaching in to cup him.
He lets out a low, tortured groan, his fingers tightening in my hair until it's a borderline burn. He doesn't move to stop me; he just stands there, vibrating with a need that is indistinguishable from hatred, letting me map the territory of his frustration.
I take him into my mouth. The taste of salt and cedar floods my senses. My hands grip the heavy nylon of his tactical vest, my knuckles white as I anchor myself while he moves against me. He isn't gentle. He's clinical, his breath a jagged rhythm above my head.
Just as the tension in his thighs peaks, he yanks me off of him. He doesn't let the tension break. He points to the narrow mattress on the floor.
"On the bed. Now."
I scramble onto the mattress, my skin humming. Before I can settle, he's on me, his hands heavy and sure as he flips me onto my stomach. The weight of his gear crushes me into the bedding as he knees my legs apart.
