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He makes a noise, deep, almost a growl. His hand drags lower, over my ass, gripping like he owns it. “You don’t know what I mean, Maple.”

Oh god.

I might die. Right here. Melt into a puddle of wet heat and bunker-grade lust.

He spins me, pressing me back into the steel locker door behind me with a dull clang, and it doesn’t scare me. It thrills me. His body crowds mine, thigh between my legs, one arm caging me against the wall like he’s not letting me run, like I’d ever fucking want to.

“I was gonna kill you,” he says.

My breath stutters.

His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder. Of what he could’ve done. Of what he didn’t.

“I know,” I breathe. “You’re not the first.”

That gets a laugh. Short. Dangerous.

His forehead presses to mine. “I hated that I wanted you,” he says, voice low and raw. “You cuffed me. Drugged me. And all I could think about was the way your mouth moves when you talk too much.”

“I always talk too much,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

His lips crush mine again, rougher this time, needier. His teeth graze. His tongue claims. And something inside me just breaks open.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into the madness.

His hand slips beneath my shirt and finds bare skin. Palm to my waist, dragging upward, like he’s mapping every inch he’s about to ruin.

I can feel the shift in him, something possessive taking hold. And god help me, I want that.

I want the rage, the reverence. The contradiction of it all.

I want him to take his time and still leave me shaking.

His lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing, breath hot. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

I laugh, wrecked and giddy. “You’re adorable.”

His mouth is back on mine, but it’s different now, hotter, hungrier, all sharp edge and need. Gone is the tension of the table, the scowling menace across dinner, the silent fury chained to a mattress. What’s left is this, Brock, unleashed.

And god, he’s beautiful when he breaks.

He presses me harder against the locker door, the cool metal biting into my spine, grounding me in a body that already feels weightless. His thigh’s still wedged between mine, and I grind down shamelessly, chasing the friction, the contact, him. I’m already soaked, already aching, already fucked in the head over this man.

“Fuck,” he mutters against my neck, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

I laugh, breathless, biting his jaw. “You and the rest of the end-of-the-world fan club.”

He growls, low and dangerous, and drags Evan’s shirt off me in one hard pull. His eyes rake over me, and it’s not appreciative, not admiring. It’s possessive. Like he’s making mental claims with every inch he sees.

“Mine,” he says, like the word tastes good in his mouth.

I should argue. Tease him. Something.

But instead I say, “Then fucking prove it.”

His hands are on my waistband in a blink. Popping the button. Peeling them down. Not rough, exactly, but relentless. Like he’s done playing and now he’s working.