The door slammed behind him with a deafening force, rattling the frame, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes, dark and focused, locked onto me like I was his next target.
“You forget how to knock?” I muttered, my heart racing for reasons I couldn’t name.
His lips twitched into a half-smile, his damp shirt clinging to his chest like he wanted to rub it in. I stepped back, half-expecting him to leave like he always did after our usual fights. But this time, he didn’t.
Without a word, he was there. In my space. My back hit the door before I even realized what was happening. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, and a weight—his body, his presence—pressed into mine. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
His voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper, “You talk too much.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. This is a bad idea was the thought that barely registered in my mind before his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was urgent. His kiss was rough, desperate, as though he was claiming something—me, maybe. And I let him. Every part of me, from the racing of my pulse to the tightening in my stomach, urged me to surrender.
“You’re so quiet when I’m like this,” he murmured against my lips, his breath mingling with mine.
I could feel his thigh between mine, the heat radiating from his body. He pulled away for just a moment, his eyes dark with something dangerous, something burning.
“You don’t get to talk now,” he said, his fingers tightening around my jaw. “Just feel.”
And I did. His lips found my neck, his fingers sliding up my spine, sending shivers through me. Every movement he made was calculated, controlled. He didn’t need to shout to make his point. He just had to touch me, and I was a mess of heat and need.
“You still think I don’t know you?” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, making me shiver again. “I’ve always known what you wanted. Even when you pretended you didn’t.”
The silence between us was thick, heavy, filled with a tension I couldn’t escape.
He wanted to break me. But instead, I found myself breaking around him, with him. Every argument, every fight we’d had over the years, seemed to dissolve into nothing as he kissed me again, this time softer, slower. But just as intense.
There were no words this time—just him and me, locked in a battle of wills that didn’t need shouting or anger. Just touches. Just whispers.
And when he pulled back, his thumb running along my bottom lip like he was savoring the taste of our kiss, I could barely catch my breath.
“I don’t need to win,” he said, his voice low, barely audible. “I just need you quiet long enough to make you feel it.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream that this was wrong. But when he cupped my face in his hands and whispered my name with that edge to his voice, I realized there was nothing left to say.
I stayed quiet.
