Page 36 of His to Hunt

And something in me snaps—low in my spine, sharp and brutal.

"Fuck it," I growl, the words barely audible above the shower's rhythm.

I push the glass door the rest of the way open without hesitation, stepping in fully clothed—jeans, boots, everything—like a man possessed. The water hits me immediately, soaking through the denim, dragging the fabric heavy against my legs, plastering it to my skin like a second layer I don't need.

She spins at the sound, eyes widening in surprise as she takes me in—this fully dressed man invading her moment of solitude. Her lips part, ready to protest, but I don't give her time to form the words.

I cross the distance between us in one fluid motion, one hand tangling in her wet hair while the other locks around her waist with undeniable purpose. Then I claim her mouth with mine—hard, open, unapologetic.

I kiss her like I'm starving for her. Like she's oxygen and I've been drowning. Like her mouth was carved from the beginning of time specifically for mine and I've been waiting my entire goddamn life to taste it.

She gasps against my lips—soft, startled—but there's no resistance in her body. Instead, her fingers press against my chest as her bare legs brush against the rough denim clinging to mine.

"What are you—" she begins, words turning to steam between us.

"Finishing what we started," I murmur against her mouth.

I press her back against the stone shower wall, her body arching instinctively as water courses between us. She's slick and wet and perfect, and the thin barrier of clothes between us feels like an offense against nature.

I grind against her, a groan tearing from my throat as I fumble with my zipper, shoving my jeans down just enough to free my cock. The sound she makes when she feels me—hard and ready against her thigh—nearly shatters my remaining control.

"Beckett," she breathes, my name a question and submission all at once.

One hand grips her thigh, lifting it to open her pussy to me while the other captures both her wrists, pinning them above her head against the slick tile. Her eyes lock with mine, pupils blown wide with desire despite her exhaustion.

"You knew I wasn't done with you," I breathe against her mouth, watching water droplets cling to her lashes.

She shudders beneath me, her body remembering what her mind might want to forget. "I should've locked the door," she whispers, challenge and invitation tangled in those five simple words.

"And miss this?" I ask, positioning myself at her entrance. "Never."

And then I'm inside her again—deep, rough, right where I left off—reclaiming territory already conquered but somehow still undiscovered. Her cry breaks open in my chest, the sound of it vibrating through both our bodies as I lose myself in her.

Because this isn't careful. This isn't soft. This is a primal necessity—Beckett Sinclair fucking his Possession against a wall, still wearing goddamn shoes for fuck's sake, underscalding water, like the world owes him this moment and he's not giving it back.

"How—" she gasps between thrusts, "—are you still?—"

"Hard for you?" I finish for her, teeth grazing her neck. "I'll always be hard for you. Could fuck you for days and never get enough."

She doesn't even try to pretend she doesn't want this. Her body melts into mine, her nails digging half-moons into my arms as I thrust into her again. Each stroke goes deeper, slower, more deliberate than the last as I hold her up with one hand supporting her weight and the other still keeping her wrists pinned above her head.

Water pours over us, creating rivers between our bodies. Her hair sticks to her face in dark tendrils, and her mouth falls open against my shoulder, breath hitching with each movement as I grind into her. Every inch of my cock is buried inside her like it's found its home.

She's shaking beneath me—wrecked, overwhelmed, and so fucking perfect it makes my jaw ache with the need to consume her completely.

I lean in close, my lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear, voice rough and saturated with want. "Look at you," I murmur, feeling her clench around me at the words. "Dripping on my cock like you forgot how to say no."

A whimper escapes her, the sound so broken and beautiful it only fuels my hunger.

"Wrapped around me like this pussy was made for it," I continue, punctuating each word with a slow, deep thrust. "Tight, soaked, still fucking twitching every time I talk. You feel that? How your body responds to my voice?"

"I hate you," she gasps, but her hips roll to meet mine, betraying her words.

I slam deeper, drawing a sharp cry from her throat. "No, you don't. You hate that you love this. You hate that I could fuck you senseless in every position and it still wouldn't be enough." My voice drops lower, more dangerous. "You're going to take everything I give you and beg for more."

Another thrust. Another broken cry.

"And when I'm done," I promise darkly, "I'll leave you so full you'll still be dripping down your thighs the next time someone even thinks about touching you. They'll know who you belong to without me saying a word."

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