This kiss hits different. There's no hesitation in it. No holding back. His mouth slams into mine like he's been starving for it, like every look he's held back on the porch is finally let loose. His tongue pushes past my lips before I'm ready, and I groan into him, my hands fisting in his cut hard enough to twist the leather.
He breaks it just enough to speak, his voice rough. "God, you have no idea what you fuckin' do to me. Being on my best behavior all the time is killin' me, woman."
His mouth finds my throat again, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, and I'm already soaked, already aching. "Fuck, Rogue."
He hikes me up off the bed and turns me around, until I'm looking at a small mirror propped on the nightstand—the kind you'd use to check yourself before leaving. I don't think about it until he speaks. "Look."
Our reflection is in the glass. Him behind me, all that ink and muscle, his chest pressed to my back, his hands already at my jeans. I see my eyes go dark, my lips swollen from his kiss.
"Watch," he says against my ear.
He unbuttons my jeans, yanks them down with my pants and panties in one rough motion. I step out of them, and he pushes me forward, palms flat on the nightstand. The mirror is right there. I see everything.
His hand slides between my thighs from behind. His fingers find my pussy, and I'm so wet they slide right in.
"Christ," he breathes. "You're so ready for me."
Two fingers push deep, and I gasp, my forehead dropping forward.
"No. Watch."
I force my eyes open. In the mirror, his hand is moving in the glass, fingers pumping into me and the look on his face—hungry, focused, completely wrecked.
His thumb finds my clit. I almost scream.
He circles it slow at first, teasing, watching my face in the glass while his fingers curl inside me. I'm already close—too close, too fast, but he doesn't slow down. He presses harder, faster, his thumb pressing down on that slick bundle of nerves until I'm gasping, my hips rocking back against his hand. "That's it, baby. Let me see you fall apart."
"I can't?—"
"You can."
He pushes a third finger in. I cry out, my hands scrabbling on the nightstand. His thumb works my clit in tight, merciless circles, and I'm gone—shattering with a sob, my cum soaking his fingers, my body convulsing in the mirror as he holds me through it.
He doesn't stop. He keeps rubbing, pushing me past the edge, into that oversensitive space where every touch is too much and I need more. I whimper, trying to buck away, but his arm is locked around my waist. "One more, baby."
"I can't?—"
"One more, Hadley."
His fingers drive into me deeper, his thumb grinding against my clit. The second orgasm hits before I'm ready—harder, darker, pulling a scream out of my throat that I can't hold back. My reflection in the mirror—mouth open, eyes wet, cum running down his hand.
He pulls his fingers out, slow.
And then he pushes my hips forward, bends me over the nightstand, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Now."
"Yes."
He slams into me. No slow, no gentle. One hard, deep thrust that fills me completely, and I scream—a raw, broken sound that hangs in the dusty afternoon air.
He fucks me like that. Hard. Deep. His hands gripping my hips, pulling me back onto his cock with every stroke, the mirror showing me everything—the sweat on his chest, the flex of his thighs, the way my tits bounce with every thrust.
His hand snakes around, finds my clit again.
"Oh god?—"
"Come on my cock, Hadley. Now."