Against Devil

9 - Sellout

***Mature Content Ahead***

The kiss was brutal.

Fierce.

Like he'd been holding back for years and finally snapped the leash.

His mouth crashed against mine with zero warning, zero hesitation. There was no softness—only heat and hunger and the overwhelming press of his body against mine. I gasped, and he took advantage of it, his tongue sweeping in, demanding, conquering.

I moaned into him, clutching at his damp shirt before dragging my hands up to fist into his hair, yanking him closer. He growled low in his throat—a warning, a surrender, a promise—and his hands gripped my hips like he owned them.

Then, with one sharp tug, he hauled me onto the desk. My nightgown rode up around my thighs, the thin silk bunching at my waist as he stepped between my legs and pressed into me.

Hard.

Rough.

His palms were everywhere—up my sides, under the fabric, brushing the swell of my breasts before slipping back down to grab my thighs and drag me to the edge of the desk with a force that made me gasp.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to push him away or pull him deeper. But when his hand wrapped around the back of my neck and angled my head to take my mouth even deeper—there was no room for doubt.

My body arched into him on instinct, craving more.

He kissed me like he hated that he needed it. Like every touch was a punishment he wanted to inflict on himself.

Teeth clashed. Lips bruised. His fingers dug into my thighs, spreading me wider for him as his other hand trailed fire down my back, clutching the sheer fabric of my gown in his fist.

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead against mine, his breath hot and ragged.

"You shouldn't choose me," he said again, voice like gravel.

I didn't care.

I smiled through swollen lips, eyes dark. "Then stop giving me every reason to."

The sound that left him wasn't human.

And when he kissed me again, it was worse.

It was better.

It was everything.

Rough. Desperate. Like he was trying to carve himself into my memory with every stroke of his mouth, every drag of his hands over my bare skin.

And gods help me—I let him.

His mouth left mine again, dragging down my throat in a slow, burning trail. His hand cupped my thigh, fingers splaying against my skin as he pulled it over his hip. The pressure of his body against mine made my breath stutter.

Then his fingers moved higher.

Between my thighs.

Just the lightest touch—but I shattered.

My back arched against the desk, hips tilting into his hand before I could stop myself. He didn't move at first. He just watched me squirm, his eyes locked to mine, burning with something between desire and darkness.

Then he smirked—wolfish. Dangerous.

His fingers slipped under the silk of my panties and stroked once—slow and deliberate.

"You know," he said, voice rough and dark against my ear, "I used to lie awake thinking about this. Wondering if this was how you touched yourself in the shower."