Page 92 of The Rookie

I whimper, my fingers tightening against his biceps, my body already betraying me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my cheeks burning, my body thrumming with need.

His cock presses hard against my stomach, the heat of him pulsing against my skin, and before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s gripping the back of my thigh and hiking my leg around his waist.

I feel every inch of him, thick and ready, and my stomach flips, my skin sparking, my pulse hammering between my legs.

I shove him weakly, shaking my head even as I grind against him.

His mouth crashes against mine as he presses me harder against the tile.

The slickness of the water, the heat of him, the pressure of his body against mine—it’s all too much.

I pretend to think about it, biting back a smile. “Fine. But only because I believe in helping rookies improve.”

His laugh is pure sin, but it’s cut short as he lifts me against the tile, positions himself between my legs, and thrusts into me in one smooth, deep stroke.

I cry out, my fingers clawing into his shoulders, my body stretching around him, already pulsing with need.

His groan is low and broken, his forehead falling against mine, his breath shaky and ragged.

“Hold on, baby.”

Griffin’s words are low, guttural, roughened by need, and then—he moves.

His first thrust is slow but deep, stretching me all over again, making my back arch against the cool tile.

I suck in a sharp breath, my nails digging into his shoulders, my thighs tightening around his waist as my body adjusts to the size of him again.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my lips. “You feel even better like this, baby.”

I whimper, my brain short-circuiting, my body already clenching around him.

He grits his teeth, pulling back slowly, almost torturously, before thrusting in harder this time, pinning me firmly against the wall.

I cry out, the sound swallowed by the rush of water and the deep, pleased groan that rumbles from his chest.

"You like that?" His voice is thick, drenched in satisfaction, his hands tightening at my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he picks up the pace.

"Yes," I breathe, my head falling back, my entire body throbbing with pleasure. "God, yes."

Griffin curses under his breath, his mouth finding the curve of my neck, his teeth scraping, biting, sucking—leaving marks just because he can.

“Gonna make you mine, Sinclair,” he growls against my throat, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper, more desperate.

The words send a shockwave through me, a deep, bone-melting ache curling low in my stomach.

I can feel his muscles flexing, his body tense, his control slipping, and fuck, I love it.

I love knowing I’m the one unraveling him.

I love how reckless he is with me.

I love how every single thrust feels like a promise—like he’s not just taking me, he’s claiming me.

And I want to give in.

I reach for his face, pulling him in, kissing him hard, messy, desperate.

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