The second that warehouse door slammed shut behind you, you knew you were in trouble.

Not with the case. Not with the suspect.

With Meachum.

Mark’s broad chest was still rising and falling rapidly from the excitement of the chase. His shirt stuck to him with sweat, holster shifting, his strong jaw clenched so tight it might snap. He looked at you like you were the threat—like you were the one he didn’t know how to handle.

“You gonna yell at me again?” he asked mockingly, voice gravel-edged.

“I should,” you snapped. You probably should've been scared, but you marched toward him anyway. “You're a reckless fuckhead. I should get your badge taken away, you selfish, stupid—"

He laughed in your face, cocky and so, so fucking insufferable.

You were chest-to-chest now, breathing fast, fury and adrenaline and something else crawling down your spine. “You need a god damn brain, Meachum.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. And then back to your eyes, darker now.

“You done lecturing me?” he asked, voice rough. “Or you just gonna keep running that pretty little mouth?”

That did it.

You shoved him. He grabbed your wrist. And then your back hit the wall so fast the air punched from your lungs, and he was on you—all of him. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth and tongue and heat. There was no time for slow or sweet, only need. Unspoken. Unresolved. Unforgivable.

You moaned when he bit your lip, hard enough to sting, and your nails raked down his chest through his shirt. “You’re such a crazy bitch,” he groaned.