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“Yes.”

Part of me wants to pull away, to run, but I can’t.

I think maybe it’s curiosity, or maybe I just want to prove to myself that I can.

“Are you going to run? I won’t chase you.”

I shake my head, the wet hair plastered to my shoulders whipping out and hitting me in the cheek instead.

Iwanthim to chase me.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I trust you.”

And I do.

I trust him.

It’s probably a bad idea, but it’s true.

Before I can even realize what I’ve done, his hands slide down to the spot between my legs and he cups it hard, pulling me back against him. It feels bruised and sore, and his touch is anything but gentle. The length of him presses against me, against the small of my back, pulsing and insistent. My heart pounds, a frantic rhythm that matches the throbbing heat between my legs.

His fingers push against me and slide down, pressing into my core and then pushing past the folds and spearing my insides on the end of his long fingers.

His touch is no longer gentle, no longer tentative.

It’s demanding, claiming.

Possessive.

It feels like lightning, like I’m being electrocuted. I want to lean into it, but at the same time, I want to pull away.

He spins me around, pressing me against the cold tiles. The contrast is mind-numbing, the freezing wall against my front, his hot body at my back. I’m trapped, pinned, at his mercy. And I realize with a jolt, that this is exactly where he wants me.

He wants me to be scared.

He wants me to worry.

Why else would he tell me that it’s going to hurt?

His mouth finds my neck, his teeth nipping at my flesh until its sensitive and raw, and then his tongue comes behind and soothes it down with long, languid swipes. His hands roam my body, touching, exploring, claiming. He alternates between soft, feather light strokes that tickle and tease, and hard, rough graspsthat are borderline painful, and I know there will be bruises when he’s done.

But I don’t make a sound.

Why?

Because I want to push him, I think.

My body aches, yearns for more, even as my mind recoils, screaming at me to resist. I can’t, it’s too late. I’m drowning in him and all the lust he pours into me. And as his hands grip my thighs, lifting me, pinning me, I surrender, letting the tide of desire pull me under.

I can feel every ridge of his fingers, every callous. His breath is hot on my neck, a stark contrast to the cold tiles pressed against my cheek.

What am I doing?

Why am I letting him do this, and why am I enjoying it?