The door slammed shut behind him with a solid thud. You barely had time to turn before John Price was in front of you — boots heavy on the floor, shoulders tense, jaw locked so tight it looked painful.

The air between you crackled, electric and thick, suffocating in the best way.

You could see it—how he fought himself.

His eyes dragged down the length of your body, slow, almost punishing. Like he was cataloging every curve, every place he wanted to put his hands. Every filthy thought he tried and failed to push down was written plain across his face.

“Fuck, love,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know, do you?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse kicking hard in your throat. “Know what?”

John laughed—a short, broken sound—and raked a hand through his hair. It made his biceps flex under his rolled-up sleeves, and your stomach flipped traitorously.

“Know what you do to me,” he growled, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between you.

His hand hovered—just hovered—near your waist, like he wanted to grab you, needed to, but couldn’t trust himself if he touched you.

“I’ve spent bloody months,” he muttered, voice dropping lower, rougher, “thinking about bending you over every surface in every safehouse we’ve ever been in.”

Your breath hitched. Heat shot straight through your veins, molten and dangerous.

He stepped even closer, until the warmth of his body was a brand against yours. His hand finally found your hip, fingers tightening almost painfully, like restraint was a physical thing he had to wrestle into submission.

“Every time you laugh,” he said, eyes dark, “every time you look at me like you do—” He swallowed hard, teeth gritting. “—I’ve had to bite my tongue so I don’t tell you exactly what I’d do to you if you let me.”

You could feel him trembling with the effort to hold back.

Your body reacted instinctively, pressing just slightly against him—and that was his undoing.

John made a low, wrecked sound and hauled you against him, crashing his mouth to yours.

The kiss was brutal, desperate—nothing like the slow, careful touches you’d shared before. This was raw. This was him coming undone.

His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass like he wanted to pin you in place, to make sure you didn’t slip away.

He kissed you like a man starving, like he needed you to breathe.

And God, you kissed him back—fingers tangling in his hair, nails dragging lightly over his scalp, making him groan into your mouth.

“You taste better than I fucking dreamed,” he muttered hoarsely against your lips, voice trembling with the sheer force of his need.

You gasped as he kissed his way down your jaw, over the shell of your ear, biting lightly at your earlobe before dragging his mouth back to yours for another searing, filthy kiss.

“I could take you right here,” he growled, voice barely human. “Fuck you so good you wouldn’t even remember your own name.”

You whimpered against him—not scared, not overwhelmed—just wanting.

That sound was too much for him.

John pressed you against the wall, crowding into your space, caging you in with his body. His hips pressed against yours, and there was no mistaking the thick, hard evidence of how much he wanted you.