Page 52 of Seeking Shadows

He slams into me in one brutal thrust, knocking the air from my lungs. His groan is feral, pained, and filthy—like he’s been caged for too long and finally tasted freedom again.

"Fuck," he snarls, his voice broken, ragged. "You feel like home and hell at the same time."

Every muscle in his body coils with tension, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not with the way I squeeze around him, not with the way I whimper every time his cock grinds deep into the ache he’s created inside me.

His hands clamp down on my hips, bruising. “You fucking haunt me,” he growls into my ear. “Even when I try to forget—this body, this cunt—it’s all I fucking see.”

I try to speak, to say his name, but all that comes out is a moan that dissolves into a sob. He moves again, dragging out slowly, just enough for the head to tease my entrance, then slams back in so hard I see stars.

Over and over, he fucks me like he’s trying to replace the anger, the betrayal, with something he can understand. Something that burns just as much.

He leans over me, chest pressing into my back, heat rolling off his skin. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes, voice dark, shaking. “And I will.”

I twist to look at him, eyes glassy and wild. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He grips my hips, slamming into me harder. “Say you’re mine.”

“No,” I hiss.

He thrusts deeper, harder. “Say it.”

“Fuck—you make me crazy,” I cry out, head falling forward. “I’m yours, Zane. Always was.”

He growls, grabs my throat again, turns my head just enough to kiss me over my shoulder — teeth, tongue, desperation.

“I’ll never stop wanting this,” he rasps. “I’ll never stop fucking you like I own you.”

He pulls out, spins me around, lifts me into his arms, and slams me against the glass wall of the shower. I wrap my legs around him, riding every thrust like I’m trying to tear him apart.

“I hate you,” I whisper, eyes burning.

“No, you don’t,” he growls. “You hate how much youneedme.”

“I hate that I can’t stop.”

“Then stop lying,” he snaps, slamming into me again.

The glass fogs with heat, with breath, with the violence of everything we can’t say. He kisses me like he’s drowning. I moan into his mouth, shaking, clawing at his back.

When I come, I scream his name — broken, wrecked, undone.

He follows with a hoarse groan, spilling inside me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us trembling.

We collapse onto the bench, still tangled, still inside each other.

The water runs cold.

His hand slides over my thigh, grounding me.

After a long silence, I whisper, “Do you still hate me?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just breathes.

Then finally, voice low and raw: “I hate that I don’t know what’s real with you anymore.”

I close my eyes.

Because that’s the one truth I can’t fight.

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