He halted at the edge of the room and pulled down a stepladder. “Climb up,” he said with a groan. His hard-on jabbed my spine, and his large hands wrapped around my sides as he guided me up the steep passage. He switched on a light, and I saw the top consisted of a loft bedroom with a slanted ceiling. Double skylights undoubtedly gave the illusion of space during the day, though the king size bed took up most of the room. It was cozy and inviting, and I wanted to sink into the mattress and find out if it was as soft as it looked, preferably while his naked body blanketed mine.

He whirled me around, and I met his gaze, plummeting into impossibly green depths shadowed by lashes longer and thicker than mine. Those eyes radiated manic obsession, devouring me with a feverous edge. He pounced without warning, muscles bunching as he hoisted me up by the neck. I kicked my feet helplessly as he strode across the room and slammed me onto the bed. This was about more than sex. He wanted to hurt me—I felt it in my bones where his hands had left their imprints.

Gasping, I propped up on elbows and watched him warily, my shaking knees falling to the sides. He stalked me slowly, shedding his clothes with each step closer, and his fierce expression said I belonged to him. I shouldn’t feel excitement, shouldn’t feel warmth pooling between my legs, but that was me—the fucked up girl who got off when she shouldn’t.

“Turn over,” he growled. “On your hands and knees.”

I rolled to my stomach, pushed onto all fours, and the mattress lowered when he climbed behind me. He wrapped his large hands around my hips and dragged me backward until my bottom pressed into his lap, my thighs spread as far as they would go. A rough hand shoved my cheek to the mattress, and my strangled moan tore through the air as his erection teased the opening of my sex.

“Are you on birth control?”

The question evoked a deep ache in my heart. I’d been on some form of contraception since I was fifteen. “I just had an injection a couple of weeks ago.”

“Are you clean?”

“Are you?” I countered.

“I’ve been in prison for eight years. What do you think?”

I didn’t answer, as I didn’t like to think of Rafe in prison.

“I asked you a question,” he bit out in that unnerving tone I was beginning to recognize. “Are you clean?”

I’d only been with one man, and considering Zach’s obsession with me, I doubted I had to worry about STDs. I wished Zach had turned his focus onto someone else, as horrible and selfish as that sounded. “I’m clean.”

He curled his fingers into my hips and nudged me. “Do you want this?”

God yes.

I let out a pleading moan. I shouldn’t want him this way. It was twisted and wrong, but just the thought that he’d do it anyway if I fought him made me even hotter. I hated my body; it had it all backwards. Sex shouldn’t be about power and control.