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All at once.
I break against him, head thrown back, a cry torn from my throat that echoes off the tile. He’s thick, unrelenting, every inch filling me in one devastating push, like he’s daring my body to reject him—like he wants to see if I’ll shatter or stretch to fit him.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and he fucks me against the wall with brutal rhythm. The slap of wet skin, the guttural sound he makes every time he buries deep—it all blends into something feral, something unholy.
He doesn’t close his eyes.
He watches me.
Those green eyes burn into mine with every thrust, like he’s carving himself into my memory whether I want him to or not. His fingers grip my thighs, holding me wide, holding me open, and the way he moves—controlled chaos—every snap of his hips calibrated to destroy and worship in the same breath.
“You feel it,” he rasps, teeth at my throat, voice low and cracked. “Say it.”
“I—” My head lolls back as he grinds in deeper, circling his hips, hitting that spot that makes my breath catch like he’s found the center of me and decided to live there. “Gods, I feel you—”
His teeth scrape along my neck, not biting, just enough pressure to remind me who’s in control. He doesn’t speak again. His body speaks loud enough. Every stroke is a sentence. Every thrust, a vow.
I lose count of how long he pounds into me—the wall vibrating behind my spine, his tattoos slick against my skin as I claw at him for more. My second orgasm builds hard and fast, and he knows it—feels it in the way I tighten around him, my cries getting sharper, less words, more need.
He shifts, one hand slipping between us, fingers finding my clit with cruel precision. He rubs tight circles, relentless, dragging the climax out of me with vicious skill. I scream into his shoulder, and he swallows it whole, fucking me through it, every thrust harder, faster, deeper.
When he comes, it’s with a growl torn from somewhere ancient—his entire body tensing, then stuttering as he drives into me one last time, grinding deep, filling me with a heat that has nothing to do with the shower.
He holds me there for a moment.
Still.
Breathing ragged against my neck.
Then, slowly, he lowers me—not all the way, just enough for my feet to touch the tile, even though my knees buckle the second they do. He catches me, of course. Always so fucking composed, even now.
His green eyes meet mine. And I finally realize how dangerous it is to let someone like Ambrose touch you like that.
Because he doesn’t take. He leaves pieces of himself behind.
The moment shatters before it can settle.
Ambrose steps back.
Not gently. Not apologetically. He withdraws like he’s been burned, like the weight of what just passed between us is more than he’s willing to carry. His cock slips free with a slick, broken sound, and the absence of him hits harder than I expect—like my body can’t reconcile that he was just inside me and now he’s gone.
His hands rake through his wet hair, jaw tight, breath still ragged, but there’s no softness left in his face. No hunger. No flicker of what I thought might’ve been there.
Only distance.
“Ambrose—” My voice catches in my throat, a whisper fractured by disbelief. My legs are still trembling, my pulse still racing, and the sting between my thighs hasn’t even faded—and yet he’s already pulling away from me like I’m a mistake carved into flesh.
He won’t meet my eyes.
“This was a mistake,” he says flatly. The words hit harder than anything he’s done to me physically. Worse than teeth. Worse than the wall.
My lips part. I don’t know what I was about to say. Don’t know what defense I could offer, what plea would make him stay, or even just look at me. But none of it matters—because he’s already moving.
He grabs his trousers. Shoves them on with angry, frantic fingers, every motion clipped and efficient, like if he moves fast enough, he can erase this moment from both our memories.
“You don’t mean that.” My voice is too small. Pathetic. But it’s all I have.
His jaw clenches. His shirt sticks to his damp skin as he pulls it over his head. The tattoos disappear beneath the fabric like they were never there.