Page 86 of Splintered Line
"Is this all you've got?" she gasps, hands tangling in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make my scalp sting. "A frantic fuck in a hallway?"
I lift my head, a snarl building in my chest. Her wrist gets pinned to the wall above her head.
"Turn around." The order is rough, not a request.
A slow, wicked smile. "Make me."
The challenge hangs in the air. I spin her, slamming her palms flat against the concrete. Her back arches, her ass pressing against my dick. I kick her feet apart with my own, establishing control. My chest presses to her back, my mouth next to her ear.
"Stay there," I command, breath ragged. My jeans unbutton with a sharp jerk, loud in the quiet hall. "Don't fucking move."
Wallet. Foil packet. Latex. A few quick, efficient strokes—armor, competence, the last line I've got left. Her skirt flips up. My hand shoves between her legs. Her panties are soaked. Fingers drag through wet fabric, and she shudders, pushing back against my hand.
"Fuck," I breathe. The word tears out of me, too raw, too honest. Seeing her bent over for me, feeling her, breathing her in—it cracks my composure. She hears it. Of course she fucking hears it.
"There it is," she taunts, voice low, triumphant. "Lost your grip, Rossi?"
No answer. I rip her panties to the side, lace tearing with a satisfying sound. The head of my cock notches at her entrance, slick and hot. This is about this moment. Right now.
"Right now," I growl, and thrust into her in one hard, deep stroke. The force punches a gasp from her lungs. I still for a second, buried to the hilt, the tight, wet heat of her a revelation. She's so wet, the sound of me sinking into her is a slick, obscene squelch that makes my dick throb. Then she moves, rolling her hips, taking me deeper. It's an agreement. A silent, brutal contract.
"Don't get it twisted," she grunts, pushing back to meet my next thrust. "This doesn't mean you own me."
I set a punishing rhythm, hips slamming against her ass, the sound of our bodies echoing off the concrete. Every thrust is a denial. Of Rylan, of my family, of the shit storm waiting for me outside this hallway. This is the only thing that's real. The only thing I can control.
"Harder," she demands, voice tight. "Is that all you've got?"
I snarl, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her up so her back is flush against my chest. Other hand slides down her stomach, finding her clit. I rub tight, hard circles, matching the pace of my cock.
"Come on my dick," I order, voice a harsh whisper against her ear. "Fucking come for me."
Her body tightens, inner muscles clamping down on me like a vise. She cries out, a sharp, broken sound that's everything like surrender to the force of it. The feeling of her losing control shatters what's left of mine. I thrust twice more, deep and erratic, and my own orgasm rips through me, a blinding, violent wave. I come into the latex, a hot, messy rush, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
For a second, we just breathe. Air thick with the smell of sex and sweat. Silence heavier than the act. Then she shifts, pulling away. I let her go. She turns, leaning against the wall to straighten her skirt. She doesn't look at me. I deal with the condom, hands unsteady. The control I sought is further away than ever. But we're not done. The silence is a ceasefire, not surrender.
Her chest is still heaving, lips swollen and red. She looks at me, her gaze a challenge even now.
"Got it out of your system?" she asks, voice rough.
My tactical mind screams to stop, to walk away, but my body is already moving. I crowd her again, backing her toward the heavy metal door of a nearby supply closet.
"Not even close," I growl, fumbling with the handle. The door swings open with a groan, revealing a cramped, dark space smelling of paper and cleaning fluid. I shove her inside, following her before the door can swing shut. I kick it closed with my foot, the click of the latch echoing in the absolute darkness.
This is better. No light, no distractions. Just the sound of our breathing and the feel of her body. I spin her again, pressing her against a row of metal shelving. The cold edge digs into her lower back.
"You want this?" I snarl, hands yanking her skirt up around her waist. Fingers find her cunt, slick and swollen. I sink two fingers inside her, and she bucks against my hand, a choked moan escaping her lips.
"Don't you fucking stop," she gasps, voice a raw command in the dark.
That's the consent I needed. Permission to lose all restraint. I pull my fingers out and grip her hips, positioning her. I drive into her again, hard and deep. The angle is different here, more intense. I can feel every inch of her, the way her walls grip me, the way she grinds back against me, taking as much as I'mgiving. This is a war. I slam into her, balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. The sounds are wet, violent, perfect. My mind is blank, all strategy gone, replaced by the single, primal need to fuck her until neither of us can remember our own names.
"Look at you," I grit out, voice harsh. "Bent over in a supply closet like a cheap whore. Is this what you wanted, Zoë?"
She laughs, a low, breathless sound that's pure defiance. "I'm not the one who couldn't wait," she shoots back, pushing off the shelf to meet my next thrust, forcing me even deeper. "You're the one who followed me here. You're the one who needed to fuck the pressure away. Who's the whore now, Rossi?"
The words hit like a physical blow. For a second, the world stops. The frantic, desperate need in my gut curdles into something hot and sharp. Shame. A sick, lurching panic that she sees right through me. That she's peeled back the layers of anger and control and found the scared kid underneath. Humiliation is a bitter taste in my mouth, and for a single, terrifying beat, I want to pull away, to hide. But the shame is a spark. And the anger is the gasoline.
The raw truth of her words makes me brutal. I lose the last of my rhythm, movements becoming erratic, desperate. I'm just rutting into her now, a mindless, frantic chase for release, a frantic attempt to fuck the feeling out of my system. I feel her hand snake between her legs, fingers finding her own clit. The sight of her taking her own pleasure, refusing to wait for me to give it to her, is the hottest thing I've ever seen. She's directing. That's the moment. The click. Her refusal to be passive, her decision to take what she needs from me, from this, it's a power move so complete it erases the shame and replaces it with a grudging, fucked-up respect. We're using each other.
