Page 22 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"Rafe," I moaned, breath catching on his name, torn from my throat like a confession and a curse all at once. "I still hate you."

His growl was feral, guttural—pure instinct.

In the next breath, he grabbed my hips and spun me hard, pressing my chest to the slick wall, steam curling around us like a shroud.

I barely caught myself, palms slamming flat against the tile as the room tilted with the sudden movement.

The shock stole my breath—but not for long.

Behind me, his body crowded mine. Heat and muscle and brutal promise. His cock, thick and heavy, throbbed against the curve of my ass before sliding lower, pressing hot and deliberate against my entrance.

He bent forward, mouth at my ear, voice dark and cracking with restraint. "Say it again. Say my name. Say you hate me. I want to hear how sweet it sounds while you beg."

My fingers curled against the tile, jaw clenched, body already giving him every answer he demanded. He hadn’t pushed inside yet. He didn’t need to. The pressure of him there, thick and waiting, made my thighs tremble.

I hated how much I needed it.

He gripped my hips harder, thumbs pressing into already-bruised skin, his cock rocking against my slick folds in slow, merciless drags. Just enough to make me whimper. Just enough to drive me wild.

"You’re aching for me," he muttered, voice breaking against my spine. "Say you don’t want it. Say it, and I’ll stop."

I said nothing.

Because I didn’t want him to stop.

Because my body was already betraying me.

And he knew it.

"That’s what I thought," he said, rough and reverent. Then he rolled his hips, not entering—just pressing, teasing, threatening to take everything. "You can hate me all you want, Grace. Just don’t stop moaning my name while you do."

I gasped, nails scraping the wall, body pitched on the edge of something sharp and inescapable.

And then he thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

And everything else fell away.

He filled me in a single brutal stroke, thick and stretching, knocking the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my mind.

My fingers curled tighter against the tile, trying to brace, trying to hold on, but there was nothing to hold onto—not with him inside me like that. Not with the way he moved.

Each thrust was a declaration. Punishment and possession all at once. He fucked me like he owned me, like my body had been made for this exact shape, this exact rhythm. Every snap of his hips sent pleasure screaming through my spine, my muscles clenching around him like I never wanted to let go.

"This what you’ve been pretending you didn’t want?" he growled into the space between my shoulder blades, his voice a wreckage of breath and hunger. "All that venom in your mouth, and still you’re wrapped around me like you need this to breathe."

A moan tore from my throat, louder than I meant, raw and guttural. My body betrayed me over and over, responding to him like it had never known anything else. And the worst part—the most unbearable truth—was how right it felt. How full I was. How the ache inside me finally started to fade.

I felt whole.

And that thought terrified me.

His hand slid up my back, fingers fisting in my hair, yanking my head back until his mouth was at my ear again. His teeth grazed my skin, and I shuddered.

"Say you hate it," he murmured, biting down just enough to make me gasp. "Say you don’t ache every second I’m not buried inside you."

"You’re a monster," I breathed, shame twisting around every syllable—but I arched back into him anyway.

He laughed, low and dangerous. "Then scream for your monster."

He slammed into me harder, and I broke again—legs shaking, eyes squeezing shut against the steam and the sweat and the way he cracked me open like a secret I couldn’t keep.

"Every time you tremble around me," he rasped, lips dragging over my neck, "you hand me another piece of you. You can’t lie to me, Grace. Not like this."

And he was right.

Not when I was unraveling on his cock, every breath a surrender I couldn’t voice. Not when the only truth left was the one carved into my skin by his hands, his mouth, the heat of him claiming me like it was the only thing he'd ever been made to do.

He yanked my head back harder, forcing a gasp from my throat, his cock slamming deeper as I scrambled to stay upright.

"Came here to take care of you," he growled, thrusting relentlessly, his voice like a blade down my spine. "To be gentle. But look at you now—dripping, begging, fucking greedy for it. You don’t want comfort. You want to be ruined. Again."

I whimpered—furious, humiliated, soaked.

"You want me to be sweet? Tender?" he snarled, the rhythm of his hips brutal, punishing. "I don’t fuck unwilling girls, Grace. Never have. Never will. But you? You’re so fucking willing your pussy sucked me in like you missed me."

His hand tangled tighter in my hair, yanking my head back with a groan as my moan cracked open the steam-thick air between us.

"This is how it’s going to be," he said, every word a thrust. "You scream. You drip. You take me like it’s all you’ve ever known. Because it is. Because your body was made to be fucked like this—hard, deep, until you don’t remember your own name, just mine."

My name—my pride—everything was dissolving under the force of him. And I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to.

Pleasure bloomed sharp and devastating, rolling through me in waves I couldn’t hold back.

My cry cracked in my throat, torn between a sob and a scream, my body convulsing around him as he drove into me one last time—deep and brutal, hips snapping hard until his growl broke against the wet curve of my shoulder.

He came with a grunt, thick and hot and buried so deep I could feel every shudder, every pulse of it. His hands gripped my hips like he was trying to anchor us both, like if he let go we’d fly apart. Maybe we already had.

We stayed there, breathless, tangled, the water crashing around us. My forehead pressed to the tile. His chest at my back. The only sound our ragged breathing and the pounding of the spray.

Slowly, his grip eased. His mouth ghosted over my shoulder, not a kiss, not quite. Just presence. Warm. Solid. Real.

He pulled out carefully, and I hissed, the loss sharp, my body already missing the stretch of him, the brutal fullness. He didn’t say anything. Just turned me gently, catching me before my legs could give out, and cradled me to his chest beneath the stream.

His lips found my hairline. My eyes slipped shut. I hated that I let him hold me. Hated that I needed it.

"You fight like fire," he murmured, voice quieter now. "But you burn so sweet when you break."

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He soaped his hands again, rinsing what was left of our ruin from my thighs, between my legs, careful now. Reverent. My breath stuttered. My body was sore. Spent. And still, it wanted more.

Eventually, he reached past me and turned off the water. The silence that followed was deafening.

He wrapped a towel around me, then one around himself. He didn’t ask if I could walk. He just lifted me again, as effortlessly as before, and carried me from the bathroom like I was something precious instead of something he’d just destroyed.