“I think you want to control every situation,” she said, “and if the only way to do that is to set it on fire, you don’t hesitate.”
The last word almost broke. There was a raggedness to it, a vulnerability she couldn’t hide even after years of practice. She turned away, facing the blackout curtains, and for a moment I saw her back contract with a silent, stifled sob.
I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Eliza-”
She spun on me, furious and wild-eyed, and before I could speak she yanked me in by the collar. The first kiss was teeth and suppressed rage, the kind of contact that left both of us breathless and off-balance.
I felt her nails rake down my chest, shredding the logic and restraint I’d spent all day assembling. I grabbed her wrist, pinning it above her head in the door frame, but she twisted free and shoved me back.
“You think you can just-” she started, but I cut her off with another kiss, deeper this time, searching for the edges of her anger.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, half-laughing at the absurdity of it.
“Too late,” she said, and her hands were at my belt, unfastening, yanking my pants down in one violent motion as we moved toward the king-sized bed.
I should have stopped her. I should have calculated the odds, run the scenario, chosen the future in which we didn’t end up tangled on the hotel’s carpet, clawing at each other like animals. But when she dropped to her knees and took me into her mouth, all I could do was hold onto the desk and pray the blackout curtains were as good as advertised.
She was angry, reckless, but there was desperation in the way she moved, like she needed to prove something to herself, or maybe just drown out the day with a better kind of pain. She sucked hard, hollowing her cheeks, and I had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from fucking her face outright. I waited until she looked up at me, eyes red, a tear escaping despite her best effort.
I knelt, pulled her up, and kissed her hard, not caring that she’d just had me in her mouth.
“The bed,” I said, not quite a question.
She nodded, breathless, and in seconds I had her dress yanked up to her hips - no panties again, this woman was going to wreck my life. I ran my fingers over her, feeling how wet she was, how ready, how angry.
“You want this?” I asked, letting the tip of my cock rest against her entrance.
“I need it,” she said, voice almost pleading.
I drove into her, hard, and she bit down on my shoulder to keep from screaming. I’d never wanted to mark someone so badly.
Everything about us was rough, the hands, the breathing, the way we used each other, but there was a frantic tenderness in the way she clung to me. The thrusts were unrestrained, all rage and need, but then her legs locked around my hips, ankles crossed, and she dug her heels into my ass, commanding me to stay. I gave in. I slowed, not out of mercy or self-control, but because I needed every second to memorize the way she felt. The heat, the impossible pressure, the way her body tried to keep me inside her even as she shuddered and gasped.
Every time I pulled back, she clamped down, refusing to let go. Her hands were in my hair, on my jaw, clawing at my back, as if she wanted to tear me apart and hold me together at the same time. She was wild, purposeful. I’d always imagined her as clinical, controlled, the world’s youngest surgeon with a mind like a scalpel. But this was different; she was as unhinged as I was and twice as hungry.
She dragged her tongue up my throat and bit my jaw. I caught her wrist midair when she tried to reach for me, pinning her arm over her head. She arched into me. I kissed her, really kissed her, deep and messy, lip bruising, because I needed her to taste how far gone I was. She responded by melting, though her hips still moved with me.
We found a rhythm, violent and perfect, and the room vanished. There was only the way her body fit mine, the way her nails raked my shoulder blades, the guttural noises she made. She was shaking, hips lifting to meet every thrust. Her breath hitched, then caught, and she let out a high, half-choked sound that vibrated through my chest.
She tried to speak, but all that came out was my name. I bit her neck, savoring the way she writhed beneath me.
She started to unravel, her whole body seizing tight, and I felt her nails dig in so deep I knew she’d leave marks. I wanted her to. I wanted proof tomorrow that this happened. That I didn’t imagine it. That she let me in, even just for one more night.
She came with a ferocity that stunned me, her back arched, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wild and wet. It wasn’t pretty or polite. It was a breakdown, a giving up. I lost it with her, let go of every edge of control I’d held for years, and it was chaos, blinding and absolute.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
I kissed her neck, tasted sweat and salt and her perfume. I shifted my angle and felt her whole-body arch against mine as the ripples of her had my body going wild, her nails relaxing from my back. I was right behind her, letting go in a way I never did, because for once I wanted the mess. I wanted her.
I rolled her over and we collapsed, tangled, her head on my chest, both of us panting.
I stroked her hair, smoothed it back from her face. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer, just curled tighter against me. For a few minutes, we just breathed.
Eventually, she shifted, disentangling herself from my arms. She fixed her hair in the mirror, expression gone flat and professional, and adjusted her dress with military precision.