The moment the door slammed shut, Marcus was on me.
There was no hesitation, no space, no restraint.
His body crashed into mine, pressing me hard against the cold wall.
The impact sent a shockwave through me, knocking the air from my lungs as his hands gripped my hips, fingers digging in like he was desperate to keep me there—to hold me in place, to not let me escape.
My breath hitched, the sharp contrast between the coolness of the wall and the burning heat of Marcus’s body igniting something primal inside me.
His fingers dug into my waist, rough, possessive, desperate—as if he needed to remind himself that I was here, that I was his.
I barely had a second to react before his lips crashed against mine, hard, demanding, consuming.
It was not soft. Not careful.
It was a storm—a reckless, chaotic, unrelenting force that swallowed me whole.
I moaned into his mouth, my fingers instinctively grasping the fabric of his shirt, curling tight, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping me upright.
Marcus groaned—a low, guttural sound that sent a violent shudder through me. His hands roamed—gripping, tugging, owning.
He slid them under my sweatshirt, his rough palms skimming the overheated skin of my stomach, my ribs, my back—like he needed to feel all of me, all at once.
I tried to speak, tried to ask what was happening, what was wrong, but the words died between us as he swallowed them with his mouth.
And then he broke away—just enough to rasp against my lips, voice rough with something dark.
“You have no right,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against mine, his grip on me tightening.
I blinked, still catching my breath. “No right to what?”
His jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. “No right to fucking play with me like that.”
And before I could even demand what the hell he meant—his mouth was on me again.
Fierce. Brutal. Unyielding.
His tongue parted my lips, claiming me without hesitation, his teeth nipping at my lower lip like he was punishing me—like he needed to remind me that I was his.
His mouth left my lips only to trail lower, grazing along my jaw, down the column of my throat, his teeth grazing, biting, sucking— marking me in a way that made my thighs clench.
"Marcus," I gasped, my head tipping back against the wall, giving him more access, more control, more of me.
I was burning. Drowning in him. And was ready to meet this death with all my pleasure.
“Marcus, you—”
“Shut up.” His voice was a dark command, filled with something raw. “Don’t talk. Just—” He exhaled harshly, pressing his forehead against my neck for just a second, his breathing uneven. “Just let me have you.”
And just with that—his teeth nipping at my pulse, his tongue soothing the sting before his lips sealed over the spot.
God, he was ruining me. He was undoing me.
Every press of his body, every grind of his hips, every firm grip of his fingers set my nerves on fire.
I could feel him—his hard length pressed against my stomach, throbbing, needy, barely contained.
The way he rolled his hips into me—slow and deep, teasing yet devastating— had me dizzy, trembling, aching.
"Fuck," he muttered against my throat, his fingers digging into my waist before sliding down to cup the curve of my ass, pressing me tighter against him.
I wanted to demand answers, to know why he was like this, to know why he was unraveling right in front of me.
But the second his hands gripped my ass, lifting me off the ground as he pinned me harder against the wall—I forgot how to think.
A whimper escaped my lips as my legs wrapped around his waist, locking him against me. He growled, like he liked hearing me lose control.
Heat pulsed between my legs, sharp and electric.
I arched into him, letting out a breathy moan that only seemed to fuel his hunger further.
Marcus gripped my hips harder, pinning my body against the wall harder, just enough so I could feel him exactly where I needed to.
“You will be the death of me,” he murmured against my skin.
His breathing was ragged, uneven, strained—his control fraying at the edges.
He was going to take me right here, against the wall.
And God help me, I wanted it. I wanted it so badly.
But the sweat from practice still clung to my skin, the heat of the day making everything sticky, damp, unbearable.
Somewhere in the fog of pleasure, a thought cut through the haze—
“Wait,” I gasped, pressing my hands against his chest, forcing myself to slow down before I lost myself completely.
Marcus froze, his forehead pressing against mine, his body shaking with restraint.
His grip on my waist didn’t loosen. If anything, his fingers tightened, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.
His dark eyes bore into mine, pupils blown, wild, predatory.
"What?" His voice was hoarse, raw, dripping with need.
I swallowed hard, struggling to gather my thoughts while my own body betrayed me—still arching into him, still craving the friction he had just given me.
“I need to shower,” I murmured breathlessly, my voice barely above a whisper.
A flicker of something—frustration, amusement, desire—passed through his gaze.
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his grip flexing around my hips before he finally exhaled, his lips ghosting over mine in something dangerously close to a smirk.
"Fine," he murmured.
And then—before I could react—
Marcus’s fingers curled around my thighs, and in one swift, effortless motion, he lifted me off the ground.
I let out a startled gasp, my arms instinctively wrapping around his broad shoulders, my legs locking around his waist as he turned, carrying me away from the wall.
My pulse hammered in my ears, my stomach flipping at the effortless way he handled me—like I was weightless, like I belonged in his arms.
"Marcus—"
"Together then," he interrupted smoothly, his voice dripping with promise, with certainty, with something dark and thrilling.
And with that—he carried me straight to the bathroom.