Roman kept going.
I cried out, hand grabbing the leather beneath me as his hips pounded into me, brutal and deep. My breath fogged the glass as he f****d me like he needed to make a point—like he needed to claim me from the inside out.
And then he thrusts deep.
I cry out, slamming my palm against the window for the millionth time. My fingers form on the glass from the condensation.
He grunts, grabbing my hips, pulling me back onto him over and over, each stroke deeper, harder. One hand fists in my hair. The other—God—wraps around my throat and stays there, not choking but claiming, keeping me still, letting me feel him.
I look up.
The window’s fully fogged, streaked with rain and the slide of my fingers. My reflection’s gone. There’s only us now. Sweat, breath, and the slick sound
