I didn’t like giving up control. Really didn’t. As for the idea of taking control, I’d tried it, with a lover who wanted that, but there’d been no…thrill of victory? I’d already held the upper hand in the relationship, and dominating in sex only seemed to hammer that home, which really didn’t do anything for me.

This wasn’t BDSM. It was just rough sex. Really rough sex. Fingers grabbing hard. Nails digging in. Nips that drew blood. Restraint and struggle mingled with hard kisses that lasted until they hurt. Then a moment to catch our breath, touching and caressing and gentle kisses and murmurs and whispers and sighs, and then right back into it, a stroke turning to a grasp, a caress to a light scratch, as if testing the boundaries.

Testing and reciprocating, the heat and fervor building again. Not sex as a battle but as a game, the upper hand changing constantly, both of us fighting for it and then, when the other achieved it, giving in because, yes, if Gabriel wanted that upper hand, there was no way in hell I could physically take it from him. But if I managed to get on top or pin him, he’d let me have that, which meant I’d won. A willingness to submit from a guy who did not ever submit? Delicious.

There was control in submitting, too. In knowing I could, with a word, stop him.

By the end, I honestly wasn’t even sure who was on top. It was a hard, blinding, I-have-no-idea-where-I-am-and-I-don’t-care climax. Probably more than one. Even when he stopped, I was still riding that wave, and once he realized that, he obliged, going until I collapsed—on him, apparently—exhausted, my whole body quivering. He turned me onto my side and kissed me, a long, sweet, gentle kiss. When it ended, he said, “Thank you.”

“Oh, hell, no. Thank you,” I said, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating between us. “That was…Wow.” I lifted my head to look at him. “You want to know how to help me work off my angst? That’ll do it.”

He pulled me against him for another long kiss, our bodies entwined. I reached to touch his jaw, run my fingers over it, savoring the freedom to touch him. When I moved my arm, though, he caught my hand and frowned down at finger-shaped bruises rising on my forearm.

“I’m sor—”

I put my fingers to his lips. “I like the fact you’ve learned to apologize. But sometimes, you kinda overdo it.”

“It wasn’t so much an apology as an acknowledgment that I didn’t realize I grabbed you hard enough to leave a mark. Which I suppose is an apology.”