I believe him.

I think that’s where our connection lies—in pain. He’s been through it. Battled it. The evidence is clear in his emotional scars. The sterility. The harsh communication.

We’re two tortured souls who’ve found each other by chance. And maybe all I need is to get my fill of him so I can cut this connection and go on my merry way. I only want what’s between his thighs. The cheap thrill. That hard, generous length. And I bet my life he feels the same about my snatch.

Once this hot and sweaty masterpiece takes place, I will pull his ripcord and fast-track him in the opposite direction.

Toodaloo, motherfucker.

No emotion. No more attachment.

His lips curve, his growing smirk alluding to that slight dimple in his left cheek. My fingertips scratch over the rough stubble of his jaw. Harsh, yet too damn inviting.

My tongue snakes out, gliding over my tingling lower lip. My body is out of control. My heart vibrates beneath my ribs, my pulse pounds, my stomach flutters with a mass of tickling butterflies.

I release his throat, my fingers gliding over his neck, his chest, before dropping to my side.

I can’t do this.

I can’t continue, and I can’t stop.

He steps back, kicking off his shoes, then grips the hem of his sweater and tank, and pulls them over his head, exposing more sculpted flesh. Not only muscles, but scars. His body is a canvas of brutality, with inch-long lines of puckered skin across his rib cage and a circular mark above his right hip.

He watches me watching him, wordlessly, almost breathlessly.

“You’re accident-prone,” I murmur.

“I guess I am.”

“But still not the violent type, right?” I meet his gaze.

“Definitely not.” His eyes glimmer with the slightest tease. “I hate the stuff.”

I’d be a blind fool not to pick up on his sarcasm. It’s there. Right there. In his grin, in his intensity, in the almost scary way he controls me without even knowing it.

Oh, God. I’m dancing with the devil.

And I love it.

He’s dangerous. There’s no doubt. And those non-violent scars around his ribs look awfully similar to stab wounds. The circular mark above his hip speaks of a bullet injury. Or maybe that’s just my imagination talking, and they’re only construction injuries. Laboring accidents.

Either way, I should pull his ripcord now. I should seriously give him a merry finger-wave as I boot his ass out the door.

I should. I should. I should.

Instead, need wraps itself around me, pulling my limbs, crushing my chest. For once, I feel… I just feel. I’m not hollow. I’m not adrift. This man has me tethered to something, his presence keeping my feet on solid ground.

“Come here,” he growls.

There are mere feet of space between us, but he demands my submission. He wants me to succumb.

I can’t deny his request. I inch forward, my chin lifting to keep our gazes connected.

“Good,” he purrs, slicing a hand around my hip to drag me into his body.

I gasp, and he steals the sound with his mouth, his lips overtaking mine, his tongue delving deep. He kisses me into mindlessness, those strong arms wrapping around me, his hands gliding down my back to cup my ass. He lifts me in a callous jerk, positioning my pubic bone against his hard cock.

I spread my legs, wrapping my thighs around his waist to grind against him. Warmth flood my pussy, my body eagerly preparing for pleasure. There’s never been a better feeling. A greater sensation.

I wrap my arms around his head, tangling my fingers in his hair. His scent is seduction, rich from aftershave and etched in sweat and virility. His kisses are strong, and yet there’s a slight glimmer of softness. The most delicate swipe of affection.

My heart hurts. I don’t want it to, but it does. It clenches. It weeps.

“Fuck me,” I demand into his mouth.

He growls and strides toward the other side of the room. My bed. He climbs onto the mattress, still holding me, still kissing me, then guides me to lie down as he kneels between my spread thighs.

The sight is profound. His eyes are wild. Carnal. His broad chest heaves with energized breaths. Veins pulse from his carved arms.

I visualize his dick again, the generous size taunting my mind. I’m going to be disappointed. I just know it.

He shoves down his shorts, his underwear, and his thick cock is revealed. The length is above average, but the girth… My God.

I suck in a breath and my pussy clenches. Nope, not disappointed at all. I want to learn every inch of that hardness. I want it everywhere. Anywhere.

“You got protection?”

I nod and swallow to ease my drying mouth. “Top drawer.”

He leans over me, pulls open my nightstand, and retrieves a loose condom. He’s efficient. There’s no hesitation. No reluctance. He rips open the packet, sheaths his length, and stares down at me. “Take off your clothes.”

I ponder a protest. Playing hardball could be fun, but I’m too far gone for games. I tug the long-sleeve top over my head and wiggle my ass out of my tight sports pants to lie before him in my underwear.

“I said, take it off before I rip it off.”

My stomach flips, and again, I contemplate dissent. This time it’s for my protection. To keep a buffer between me and all the feels. I want him too much. Not only his lust, but the distraction. The connection. The reprieve from reality.

“Fine. Keep them on.” His hands snake up my inner thighs, reaching my black lace panties. He grips the crotch, his fingers prodding, tugging, until the material tears. He stares down at me, his nostrils flaring, his teeth digging into his lower lip in a show of pure restrained aggression. “I hope you like it rough.”

I shudder. “And what if I don’t?”

His gaze glides to mine as a lone finger parts my slick folds. “Then I’ll enjoy changing your mind.”

That finger breeches my entrance, sliding inside me. It’s a tease, the slightest penetration leaving me anticipating the considerable size of his dick. His free hand slides over my stomach, the callouses on his palms scratching, marking my skin.

He grasps the front of my bra, yanking the cups to the sides. I’m exposed to him, the dislodged material plumping my breasts, creating a mass of impressive cleavage.

“I’ll have fun breaking you in.”

I push to my elbows and clench my pussy around the lone digit. “You’re too late to break anything.”

His brows furrow, and I lean up to wrap my arm around his neck, pulling him down to me before he can question my response.

“Fuck me,” I whisper in his ear and lick his neck. He’s salty, the lingering sweat sinking into my tongue like an aphrodisiac.

He snarls and jerks his hips, the head of his cock finding my entrance. I feel his hand down there, positioning his length, then in one harsh thrust, he’s deep inside me, stretching my muscles, blinding me with pleasure and the slightest twinge of torture. I moan, clinging to his neck as he shoves into me. Pulse after pulse. Slam after slam.

“Fuck.” His curse is ferocious, his movements merciless. He rests his forehead against mine, looking me in the eye. “Who are you?”

“Your fantasy,” I tease with a kiss, digging my nails into his shoulders.

“No shit.” He bites my lower lip, then sucks it into his mouth. “A fucking nightmare, too.”

“I sure am.” I chuckle.

He grins, exposing his dimple, and a softness in his eyes I’ve never seen before. It’s beautiful. Frighteningly so. For a second, I pause, taking in his complexity. The calm of his smile against his hard penetration.

“I thought you were going to be rough.”

He bites my lip again, this time harder. “I thought it was better not to scare you.”

“Or you turned into a pussy.”

“Yeah?” He raises a brow and slams into me. “You really think so?” He snakes his hand behind my neck and grips my ponytail, tugging my head back. My breasts thrust toward him. My eyes roll.

Pleasure. So much pleasure.

His mouth trails a path from my cheek to my shoulder, then my chest. His kisses become stronger. Harder. I squeal as he sucks on my skin. Shit. He’s leaving marks, tattooing me with his domination.

“Too much for you? ’Cause I haven’t even started,” he murmurs against the side of my breast, his hips still bucking, fucking the life out of me. Or maybe he’s fucking life back into me.

I don’t want that. I don’t want change. I need this sterile existence. “No. Not enough.” I need the harsh detachment to keep me sane.

I shove at his chest and buck my hips, encouraging him to roll. We tumble, switching positions, me on top, his muscled body beneath me.

“Better?” He raises a brow in question.

I nod. His cock sinks deeper, stretching me farther. “Mmmhmm.”

He cups my breasts, his fingers digging into flesh. I ride him, my hands splayed on his hard chest. All my muscles are tense, taut from the build of bliss. Then my foot twinges. A cramp strikes. “Shit.”

“What?” He scowls.

“I’ve got a cramp.”

“Not my fucking problem.” His words are rough, but his lips curve in a tease.

No, it isn’t his problem, but he pushes to sit, his hand sliding over my thigh, my calf, my heel. He curls my toes in his fist and the pain increases. He doesn’t stop fucking me; he continues the rhythmic pulse of his hips, the stimulation gradually fighting back as the cramp subsides.

“Better?” His eyes hold something that threatens to weaken me. Something that cracks my ribs apart in an attempt to touch my heart.

“Yeah.” I glance away and bury my head in his shoulder.

His hands find my ass as he continues to sit, our chests plastered together, our sweat mingling. He guides my movements, making me grind against the dick nestled deep inside me. The friction teases my clit, the pleasure pulsing through me from my core, to my stomach, to my breasts.

“For a fucking temptress, your pussy is as tight as a virgin’s.”

I close my eyes and smile. “You’re so sweet.”

He chuckles, digging his fingers deeper into my ass. Tomorrow, I’ll have a roadmap of marks on my body. A treasure trove of carnal memories.

He leans down, his mouth latching onto my nipple. He sucks. He grinds. He thrusts. Every movement catapults me toward an edge I’ll happily dive over.

“Tell me your name. I want to shout it when I come.”

I shake my head. I’m already close. I need to focus.

He growls, “Tell me.” The rough texture of his tongue swipes my breast, trailing my areola.

“Oh, God, don’t stop.” I want more. I need more.

“Then tell me.”

I pulse faster, my orgasm within reach. He groans, and the delicious sound acts as a trigger.

My pussy contracts, pulsing over and over. Wave after wave of ecstasy pummels me from the inside out. Drowning and re-energizing at the same time. I moan, longer, louder. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Damn you,” he growls, pistoning his hips.

I slowly blink through the shattering peak, my mind and body tangled in a delicious web of delirium and euphoria.

Each change in his expression becomes a memorable snapshot I vow to never forget. He shouts his release, his fingers creating scars—emotional and physical. That beautifully rugged face contorts. Sweat beads his skin. Wisps of hair cover his eyes as his forehead scrunches.

I watch, enraptured, as his pleasure takes hold, and I thrive on him succumbing. For once, he’s not in control. He’s weak. He’s human.

My chest tightens in excitement, as if I’ve won a battle. But what could I have won other than a temporary distraction?

His shoulders slump, and his grip loosens. The emotionless face I’ve grown accustomed to returns along with his steady breathing. I stare at the stranger poised between my thighs, unable to look away from the lazy intensity staring at me.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, resting back on one hand.

I snap out of the lust haze and command myself to focus. “I’ve already told you.”

“You haven’t told me a damn thing.”

“Then maybe it’s none of your business.”

His nostrils flare, and I’m equally annoyed and turned on by his anger. “Is it a crime to want to know your fucking name?”

Yes. He shouldn’t need to know. I certainly have no interest in learning his.

“It’s Emma.” I scowl. “You already know that.”

“Bullshit,” he grates.

I pull back with the evaporation of ecstasy. So much for a distraction. The memory of how I got here floods back. The images of Dan assail me, creating revulsion.

I crawl off him, my body immediately missing his, and move to sit on the edge of the mattress. I lean over, massaging my forehead as my mind rambles unwanted thoughts.

How did I get here?

I was happy once. Loving. Optimistic. I didn’t have a care in the world. Then Jacob changed everything, instigating a domino effect I had no control over. I functioned with continued detachment. I lived for one thing, and one thing only. And this is what I’ve become.

All the fulfilment I experienced moments ago washes out like a tide, and hollow disgust flows in with the force of a tsunami. I’ve just had sex. Mind-blowing, limb-shaking sex. Mere minutes after finding out I’m a murderer.

Who have I become?

“You should leave.” My statement is strong, belying the already fractured parts of me which fragment into tinier slivers.

I stay silent, waiting for a protest that doesn’t come.

The mattress jolts with his shifting weight, then he’s gone, moving away from the bed, his padded footsteps retreating. His clothes rustle. His shoes thud against the floor.

“Emma… Stephanie… Whatever the hell your name is, I want to see you again.” Each word is growled harsher than the last. “Tonight. At the bar.”

I grab my pillow and drag it to my chest. I won’t succumb again. I need to pull my shit together, not spread it out for the world to see. I have to figure out what to do now that I’m one of those people I usually fight to punish. And now, more than ever, I have to gain retribution for what has been done to my family before I become the focus of someone else’s vengeance. Or worse—trapped behind bars.

“Do you hear me?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I hear you.”

But hearing him doesn’t mean I’m listening.