The heavy door to Bay Seven had just clicked shut behind her when his hand snapped out from the shadows of a recessed doorway.
His fingers locked around her wrist, a steel band, and he yanked.
Ava stumbled, her breath a startled gasp swallowed by the sterile hallway, and then she was through another door, into pitch black and the thick smells of dust, gun oil, and old canvas. The door clicked shut. Absolute darkness.
His body was a solid wall of heat against her back. His breath was hot against her ear, stirring the loose strands of her hair. "You said no."
The voice was nothing like the flat monotone he’d used for the medics. This was pure, unleashed hunger. A low rasp that vibrated through her spine.
"Now you live with what you woke up."
She could feel the hard line of his erection pressing against the small of her back. A stark, undeniable truth in the dark. Her own body answered it, a slick heat gathering between her legs that was both fear and a shameful, sharp want.
She didn’t speak. She breathed in the scent of him—ozone and pine and cold metal—and let her head fall back against his shoulder. A surrender. A challenge.
His other hand came up, splayed across her stomach, pulling her tighter against him. His palm was searing through the fabric of her shirt. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and she felt the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his open mouth against her skin.
He didn’t kiss her. He inhaled, a deep, shuddering drag of air, as if he was drinking her scent from her pores.
"You walk away from me," he murmured into her skin, his lips moving. "You walk out of that bay looking like that. Hair coming down. Mouth swollen. Smelling like me."
His hand slid up from her stomach, over her rib cage, and closed over her breast. He palmed it through her bra, his thumb finding her nipple and rubbing it into a tight, aching peak. She arched into the touch.
"That was a choice, Ava."
Her name in his mouth was a weapon. A claim.
She turned in his arms, a slow friction in the confined dark. Her hands came up, mapping the hard planes of his chest, the scarred ridges under his shirt. She found his face, her fingertips tracing the grim line of his mouth.
He caught her wrist again, bringing her palm to his lips. He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of it. Then he guided her hand down, down the rigid abs, to the front of his fatigues.
He let her feel it. The thick, hard length of him, straining against the zipper. He was huge. Aching.
"That's what you woke up," he growled, his voice ragged. "Every time you look at me. Every time you don't run."
She curled her fingers around him through the fabric, a slow, deliberate pressure. He hissed, his hips jerking forward into her hand.
In the utter black, sight was nothing. It was all sound—his ragged breath, the rustle of fabric. All touch—his heat, his hardness. All smell—dust, oil, and the pure, wild scent of his need.
He found her mouth in the dark. The kiss was not gentle. It was possession. A claiming. He licked into her, tasting her, and she met him with equal hunger, biting his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth.
His hands went to her waist, fingers hooking into the belt loops of her trousers. He walked her back two steps until her shoulders hit a metal shelf. Something clattered to the floor.
He undid her button. He pulled down her zipper. The sound was obscenely loud.
Cool air hit her stomach. Then his hand. His palm slid down, past the waistband of her panties, his fingers sliding through the wet heat he found there.
"Fuck," he breathed against her mouth, his voice full of ruined wonder.
He stroked her, one thick finger circling her clit, and her knees buckled. He held her up against the shelf, his body caging her in.
"Tell me to stop," he demanded, his mouth trailing down her throat. He bit the tendon there, not hard, but enough to make her gasp. His finger dipped lower, testing her entrance, pressing in just the first knuckle. "Say it."
She rocked her hips, taking him deeper. Her answer was a broken sound.
He pushed his finger all the way in, and she cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He added a second, stretching her, his thumb working tight circles over her clit. The rhythm was brutal, perfect. He fucked her with his hand, his breathing harsh in her ear.
She was close. So close. The pressure coiled, white-hot, in her core.
He stopped.
He withdrew his hand, leaving her empty, trembling on the edge. She made a wordless sound of protest.
She heard the rasp of his zipper. Felt him, the hot, silken head of his cock pressing against her inner thigh. He nudged her legs wider with his knee.
He positioned himself at her entrance. The blunt pressure was immense. A promise. A threat.
He didn't push.
He held there, his whole body shaking with the effort of restraint. His forehead dropped to hers in the dark. His breath came in ragged gusts.
"Last chance," he gritted out. "To be smart."
Ava wrapped her arms around his neck. She lifted her hips, a bare, desperate inch.
A claiming.