Rivals Fight Turns to Passion

Elisabeth’s teeth scraped raw across Marcel’s lower lip, splitting the skin just enough to draw blood. The metallic taste flooded her mouth, hot and copper-sharp, and she held there a second longer than she needed to, feeling him hiss against her mouth before she shoved him, just enough to break the seal of their mouths without breaking the space between their bodies. Only then did the rest of it crash in on her—the ache in her jaw from clenching, the throb low in her belly, the way her soaked cunt found the hard ridge of him through his torn trousers and ground down without her permission. She hated that her body moved before her brain caught up. She hated more that she didn’t stop it.

“You always fight dirty,” she panted against his split lip, and he laughed, low and mean, the sound vibrating into her teeth.

“Look who’s talking.” His hands were already at her shirt, not unbuttoning, just tearing, and she heard a button skitter off somewhere into the dark. Cold air hit her skin a half-second before his mouth did, and she arched into it, one hand raking down his chest while the other caught his shirt collar, ripping it half off his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He grabbed her wrist and bit down at the base of her thumb, not hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her gasp, then let go just as fast, shoving his own hands down to fumble at his belt.

She got there first, batting his fingers away, and he let her fumble it open, cursing when her nails scraped skin instead of leather. He shoved his trousers down just far enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip—and it slapped hot against her stomach where her shirt hung open. She thought, distantly, that she should hate how good that felt. She thought a lot of things distantly these days when he was touching her.

His hand found her bra next, dragging at the strap, and it snapped under his fingers instead of coming undone properly, her tits spilling free, nipples drawn tight in the cold air and tighter still when his palm dragged rough over one. She shoved him, he shoved back, and the momentum threw them both toward the raised ledge—her spine hit first, a jolt of cold stone through fabric, the ledge catching only her since his own weight was still braced forward against her body. His hands dropped to the waistband of her pants, shoving them down her thighs along with her underwear in one impatient drag, and she kicked them off one leg entirely, leaving them tangled at her ankle on the other as he hauled her up onto the ledge, yanking her half-naked body forward until she was seated on the edge, high enough that her hips met his, thighs spread wide over him as he stepped in close between her knees.

Her cunt dragged slick and open along the full length of his cock, coating him shaft-root to tip in her wetness with every desperate grind of her hips, and she watched his jaw tighten, watched something flicker behind his eyes that looked almost like defeat. Good, she thought. Let him lose this one too.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice wrecked, like it was an accusation.

“Shut up and do something about it.”

His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks she’d find tomorrow and resent him for, hauling her closer to the edge until he could notch the blunt head of his cock against her entrance. She held her breath without meaning to. Then he thrust up, one brutal stroke that buried him to the root, and the sound that tore out of her throat wasn’t a moan so much as a shout, raw and loud and completely unhidden, bouncing off the walls around them like it belonged there.

“There it is,” he growled against her collarbone, and she wanted to hit him for how smug it sounded, except her cunt clenched around him instead, greedy, and every word died in her mouth.

She rocked against him, chasing the drag of him inside her, her clit catching against the base of his cock every time she ground down, and for a few strokes she let herself forget this was supposed to be a fight, let herself feel only the slick slap of skin and the stretch of him filling her. Then he gripped her waist and pulled her down off the ledge, her feet finding the floor for one unsteady beat, his cock slipping free of her in the drop. He turned her before she’d caught her balance, spinning her by the hips with a rough jerk until her back faced him, and drove back into her from behind in one hard stroke before she’d even finished turning, her palms slapping flat against the ledge to catch herself.

The stone was cold under her hands, colder against her bare tits when he bent her forward and pressed her chest flat to the surface, the shock of temperature sharpening every nerve already lit up under her skin. Her ass tilted up, exposed, her pants still hanging off one ankle, and she heard him exhale hard behind her like the sight alone had knocked something loose in him.

“Look at you,” he muttered, pulling back until just the head of him stayed inside her, dragging shallow and slow instead of driving deep, teasing, cruel. “Still trying to act like you don’t want this.”

“Fuck you—” she started, and he slammed forward again, cutting the insult off into a cry that scraped her throat raw.

The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt head of him dragging against something inside her that made her vision white out at the edges. His hips slammed against her ass with a wet, filthy slap, over and over, the sound obscene in the quiet, mixing with her own ragged gasps and the slick drag of him fucking in and out of her soaked cunt. Her nails scraped uselessly against the stone, searching for purchase that didn’t exist.

“Fuck—harder, you bastard,” she snarled, the words cracking apart into a moan when he obeyed, snapping his hips forward with brutal force.

“Still giving orders.” His voice was ragged now, breath sawing out of him between thrusts. “Thought you’d have shut up by now.”

“Make me.”

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, not painful, just enough to angle her head back, and drove into her harder, the slap of his hips against her ass turning sharp and relentless. Her cunt fluttered around him, dripping down her thighs, soaking his balls with every stroke, and she could feel herself unraveling faster than she wanted to admit, her curses dissolving into broken half-words, gasps that climbed higher in pitch with every thrust.

Marcel leaned his weight forward over her back, chest nearly flush to her spine, and reached along one of her arms to catch her wrist, dragging it up and pinning it flat against the ledge above her head, his fingers biting into her skin hard enough that she felt every individual point of pressure. Her other arm stayed free, forearm braced flat against the stone, taking her weight so she didn’t buckle under him. He never broke rhythm, hips still driving into her from behind even folded over her like that. She tested the pinned wrist once, an instinctive jerk against it, and found no give at all. Something in her chest went hot and tight at that, at being caught, stretched out and exposed with her free arm shaking under her own weight and the cold stone under her cheek.

“That’s it,” he said, voice dropping rough near her ear. “Take it.”

She couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted to. Her moans climbed into something closer to a scream, unrestrained, ricocheting off the walls with no attempt at containment, her whole body rocking forward under the force of him with every punishing thrust. The orgasm hit without warning, slamming through her in one violent wave that locked her thighs and wrung a sound out of her she didn’t recognize as her own voice—something raw and guttural and completely undone. Her cunt clamped down around his cock, pulsing hard, and she felt every inch of him twitch inside her in response.

He didn’t stop. He fucked her straight through the spasms, dragging a second smaller wave out of her before his own rhythm broke apart, hips stuttering, a rough groan tearing out of his chest as he came, flooding her with heat, his hand crushing down over her pinned wrist until the last pulse of him emptied out.

For a moment neither of them moved. Her cheek stayed pressed to the cold stone, chest heaving, his weight still braced over her, his cock still buried deep and softening inside her. She could hear both their breathing, ragged and uneven, and felt the sweat cooling fast on her spine where the air hit it.

Then he pulled out, rough and sudden, and she felt the loss of him like a slap.

“Get off me,” she said, voice hoarse, and he pushed back, releasing her wrist and straightening away from her, giving her enough room to shove upright off the ledge and reach down to yank her pants back up one leg and grab for what was left of her shirt.

He didn’t answer. He was already straightening his own clothes, jaw tight, not looking at her, and the silence between them was colder than the stone had been.