Page 101 of Breaking Ophelia

He cups my jaw, thumb rough on my cheek. “Good. I never wanted to save you. I wanted to own you.”

I kiss him then, hard enough to bruise. He tastes like beer and sweat and the sour, metallic tang that is only his. He kisses back, taking control, pinning me with his hips against the edge of the bench.

“I like watching you grow things,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re beautiful when you’re making something live.”

I snort. “You’re a fucking poet.”

He shrugs, nips my bottom lip. “I’m just telling the truth.”

I reach behind me, grab the bottle from the table, and press it to his chest. “Drink. You’re starting to get sentimental.”

He takes it, but instead of drinking, he slides the bottle under my shirt, dragging the cold glass across my stomach. I gasp and squirm, but he holds me steady, grinning like a devil.

“You don’t like that?” he teases.

“It’s freezing, Caius.”

He pushes it higher, over my ribs, until the chill stings in a way that makes every nerve light up. “You can take it,” he says.

He’s right. I can. I always do.

He sets the beer back down and pins me in place, one hand on my hip, the other tracing lazy circles over the skin he just iced. “I could fuck you right here,” he whispers. “Would you let me?”

The answer is yes. Always yes. But I make him work for it. I arch an eyebrow, lips curling in a smirk. “You’re going to get dirt on your knees.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve had on them,” he says, and the look in his eyes is hungry, dark. “But if you want to move this inside, I can be persuaded.”

I pretend to consider it, then shake my head. “No. Here. I want to be filthy.”

He grins wider, then kisses me again, slow this time. His hands map every inch of me, tracing the places that make me shudder,the scars that haven’t faded yet. He’s not gentle, but he’s careful. Like he knows how easy it would be to break me, but he’d rather keep me whole.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

I swallow hard, because I believe it.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

His phone buzzes, interrupting the moment. He ignores it.

For a second, the rest of the world disappears. It’s just the heat, the dirt, the taste of him on my tongue.

He slides his hand further down, two fingers pressing just enough to make me whimper. He knows exactly how to touch me. He always has. His fingers curl, hitting that spot and just before I come, he pulls them out and yanks my leggings off, unzipping his pants.

“Say you’re mine,” he teases me with the tip of his cock, running it over my clit.

I meet his eyes, steady. “I’m yours.”

He slides in, slow and perfect, and I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. The greenhouse is glass, after all. Don’t want to scare the guards.

He fucks me slow at first, then harder, both of us gasping, bodies slick with sweat. I wrap my legs around his hips, drag him closer, and dig my nails down his back. He loves when I scratch. He loves when I leave a mark.

He comes with my name in his mouth, then holds me so tight I can barely breathe.

When it’s over, we collapse onto the bench, tangled and shaking.

He kisses the top of my head, then says, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I laugh, chest still heaving. “I hope so.”