Crossing Lines
The ache blooming low in my stomach like something sacred had been ruined, rebuilt, and claimed as his.
The bruises haven’t surfaced yet.
But I feel them coming.
And I want them.
God help me, I want them.
He didn’t just fuck me. He dismantled me—slowly, deliberately, with that voice like smoke and steel, and hands that didn’t ask. They took. They owned.
Nathan Cross is built like sin wrapped in precision. That chest—solid and unforgiving—pressed to my back while he whispered filth into my ear. Those hips—moving like he had all the time in the world to make me scream his name.