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When his fingers slide between my thighs and find how ready I am, he lets out this low, dark chuckle that makes my knees buckle.

“No wonder you talk so much,” he says, dragging his fingers through the slick mess he’s barely even earned yet. “You’re trying not to explode.”

“Maybe I just like multitasking,” I shoot back, voice shaking.

His answer is two fingers, sunk deep without warning, and my snark shatters on impact.

I gasp, grabbing for his shoulders as he curls them just right, like he already knows exactly where I break.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips at my ear. “Say I’m yours.”

“You’re, fuck, you’re mine.”

He kisses me again, and it’s all teeth and tongue and possession, his fingers still working me open, slow and deep, like he wants me right on the edge before he breaks me.

I reach down, fumbling for his belt, but he’s already there, unbuckled, unzipped, pants shoved down just enough to free what he’s been hiding.

And fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Hard. Thick. Heavy in his hand as he strokes once, twice, guiding himself to where I’m already soaked for him.

When he lines up, it’s not hesitant. There’s no teasing. He just slides in, deep and slow and unforgiving. I clutch at him, at the locker, at anything, because I swear to god I see stars behind my eyes.

“Fuck,” he growls again, forehead pressed to mine. “You were made for this.”

I can’t answer. My body’s too busy breaking.

He thrusts, slow but hard, dragging out every inch, every sound, every ragged moan like it’s a lesson. Like he’s teaching me what it means to be taken by someone who doesn’t do soft, but still feels everything.

My back hits the locker with each roll of his hips. My legs lock around his waist, pulling him in closer, tighter, deeper, and he doesn’t falter, not once. His rhythm is cruel and perfect, slow enough to drive me mad, hard enough to keep me from forming coherent thoughts.

His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me hard, then drag his mouth down my neck, biting marks into my skin like he wants the whole fucking world to know what he’s done.

And all the while he’s still whispering.

Not sweet things.

Not promises.

Just truths.

“You’re not like anyone.”

“You make it too easy to lose control.”

“I hated you for this.”

“I’m never stopping.”

Each word lands like a thrust. Each thrust breaks me a little more.

I come hard and fast, shattered in his arms, crying out against his mouth as he fucks me through it like he’s been waiting for that exact sound. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let up. Just watches me fall apart and then chases the same edge.

And when he finally loses it, groaning, snapping his hips forward as he spills inside me, it’s with a growl ripped straight from his chest and a bruising grip on my hips that I’ll feel for days.

He fills me, every pulse of him dragging aftershocks through me until I’m trembling, boneless, wrecked.

Perfect.