Page 182 of Controlled Burn
She bit his jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. “Erase him. Right here.”
His hands were on her pants before she finished the sentence, yanking them down her legs. She kicked them off, heart hammering in her chest.
Dean’s hands found her thighs, hoisting her up. She wrapped her legs around him, the solid wall of his chest pressing into hers, their mouths crashing back together.
“I missed this mouth,” he growled, sliding his tongue along hers. “Missed the way you taste like fight.”
He carried her to the bunk and dropped her onto the mattress. The air between them snapped like a live wire. She lay back, legs spread, daring him.
“You gonna make me beg?” she taunted.
He pulled off his shirt in one brutal motion. His body was all lean muscle and tension, every scar a story. His belt hit the floor with a metallic clatter, and he dragged his jeans down just far enough.
Then he crawled over her like a man who’d been caged for too long.
“Beg?” His voice was low, lethal. “No. You begged for breath last time. This time, I’m making you choke on mine.”
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other tearing her panties aside. Two fingers dragged through her slit.
“Already soaked,” he muttered, eyes locked on hers. “Goddamn, Cross. You don’t even pretend.”
She arched up into him, grinding her hips. “You gonna fuck me or just narrate it?”
He growled, shoved inside her in one deep, brutal thrust.
She screamed.
It wasn’t pain. It was everything. Release. Rage. Need—every broken piece of her fusing back together around the thickness of him.
Dean didn’t move right away. Just hovered there, his cock buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to hers.
“You feel that?” he breathed. “That’s not control. That’s obsession.”
There were no cameras here. No shadows watching. Just skin, and heat, and the sound of his breath shaking.
Then he moved.
The rhythm broke her. Each thrust snapped the air, snapped her breath. The cold sheet under her back turned wet from sweat and need.
Hard. Fast. No rhythm, just punishment.
Her legs locked around him, fingernails scoring down his back as she lost herself in the rhythmless wreckage of it all.
“Say my fucking name,” he snarled.
“Dean—”
“Louder.”
“DEAN—!”
He slammed into her again and again, until she was sobbing his name, shaking apart beneath him.
He released her wrists, and his hand wrapped around her throat instead—not tight, just pressure. Possession. A reminder that she was his, even in her unraveling.
“You’re mine,” he growled, eyes dark and wild.
“Then take it,” she gasped. “Take all of it.”
