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“Not tonight.”

I let him. Because that’s the deal. No ownership. No surrender. Just sex. Just release.

He shifts up the bed, pressing the length of his body to mine as he grabs my thighs and spreads me wide. His cock drags overmy folds, slick with me, head catching on my entrance as he grinds slowly—too slowly—teasing me again.

I glare. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to the gods—”

He thrusts in, deep and brutal. The air leaves my lungs in a gasp. No warning. No easing in. Just one sharp, thick slide that fills me to the edge of pain.

And fuck, it’s perfect.

I claw at his back, nails dragging lines down the muscle there, and he groans—low and guttural—driving in harder. He sets a pace that isn’t frantic, but punishing. Every thrust hits deep, angled perfectly, calculated like a threat. His hands pin mine above my head. His chest brushes mine. Sweat slicks our skin.

He’s still watching me.

Still wearing that cold, unreadable expression. Like fucking me is a strategy. Like this isn’t about need—it’s about winning.

I bite his shoulder and he hisses, hips stuttering. “Harder,” I growl, and he gives it to me.

The rhythm shifts. Faster. Rougher. The slap of skin echoes off the walls. I moan into his mouth, panting against his lips as he pounds into me like he’s got something to prove—and maybe he does.

Maybe this is how Ambrose Dalmar begs. With cock. With teeth. With the kind of steady, soul-stealing fuck that leaves no room for thought.

“You’re going to scream,” he says, like a prophecy.

I laugh, breathless. “Make me.”

So he does.

I come again—harder this time, messier. My body tightens around him, and he swears, driving into me like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

He’s losing control.

I can feel it in the way his rhythm starts to falter. In the way he buries his face in my neck, breathing hard, murmuring cursesthat melt into my skin. I hook my legs around him, drag him deeper, and he growls—loud and ragged—before he slams in one last time and spills inside me with a broken sound I’ve never heard from him.

He stays there. Still. Breathless. His weight pressed into mine, grounding me, suffocating in the best way.

And then, like nothing happened—like he didn’t just fuck me like the world was ending—he pulls out, slow and deliberate, and stands.

Silent. Distant. Already putting himself back together.

I watch him dress without shame, legs still open, body wrecked, not bothering to move.

“You’re getting predictable,” I murmur, still sprawled in the ruins of our arrangement.

He pauses. Glances over his shoulder.

“You’re getting loud.”

“You like it.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial. He buttons his pants, slips into his coat, smooths his hair like none of this touched him.

“That’s it?” I ask, breath still shallow. “No cryptic comment? No post-coital threat?”

He reaches for his belt. “Next time, don’t fall asleep.”

I grin, wicked and sharp. “Next time, don’t make me come so fast.”