Fog blankets San Francisco, seeping into the cracks of this warehouse-turned-fight club, where sweat and blood mingle with the tang of salt air. I’m Tessa, a runaway with a bounty on my name, hiding in plain sight among the dregs who bet on fists and fury. My cropped leather jacket and ripped jeans scream defiance, but inside, I’m a live wire, buzzing with fear and need. The Razor’s Edge is my refuge tonight, a pit of chaos where I can forget the men hunting me. I’m Robert Greene’s Coquette, all sharp smirks and guarded glances, but craving a collision to shatter my control.
He’s in the cage when I spot him—Knox, a fighter with a reputation for breaking more than bones. His body’s a weapon, all corded muscle and scars, sweat gleaming under the flickering lights, a wolf tattoo snarling across his back. He’s the Rake, raw power wrapped in reckless hunger, and when his eyes—storm-gray, piercing—lock on mine through the crowd, it’s a fist to my gut. I’ve heard rumors he’s tied to the syndicate I’m running from, and the thought spikes my pulse, but my body doesn’t care, thighs clenching at the thought of his hands on me, rough and unyielding.
The fight ends, his opponent crumpled, and he’s out of the cage, stalking toward me. The crowd parts, sensing his edge. “Tessa,” he growls, my name a blade on his tongue, and I freeze—how does he know me? Suspense coils, cold and tight, but desire burns hotter, drowning the warning. “You’re playing with fire,” I say, chin up, voice steady despite the tremor in my core. He steps closer, sweat dripping, his scent—salt, musk, violence—flooding my senses. “Good. I like to burn.”
We don’t negotiate. He grabs my wrist, pulling me through a side door to a locker room—tiles slick with steam, showers hissing, the air heavy and wet. The door slams, and he’s on me, pinning me to the wall, his body hard, dripping, caging me in. “Say no,” he rasps, lips grazing my jaw, teeth scraping, but I’m already arching into him, craving the bruise. “Fuck me,” I whisper, and it’s a match to kindling. His kiss is brutal—lips crushing, tongue invading, tasting my defiance as I bite back, drawing a growl that vibrates through my bones.
He yanks my jacket off, tearing my tank top, fabric ripping like paper. My bra’s gone in a snap, breasts spilling free, nipples pebbling in the steamy air. His hands are rough—calloused, possessive—gripping my tits, squeezing hard, thumbs pinching my peaks until I whimper, pain sparking pleasure. I’m feral, clawing his chest, nails carving red lines through his wolf ink, blood welling under my fingers. His shorts hit the floor, and his cock—thick, veined, pulsing—juts free, precum beading. I grip him, stroking tight, feeling him throb, his hiss a reward as I twist my wrist, teasing his slit.
He spins me, bending me over a bench, my hands braced on wet wood, ass up, jeans and panties ripped down to my knees. The steam curls around us, water dripping from his skin onto mine, slicking my thighs. His hand cracks against my ass—sharp, stinging—and I moan, the burn flooding my pussy, already soaked. “You like it rough,” he growls, spanking me again, harder, my skin blazing as I push back, begging for more. His fingers find me, plunging into my cunt, three deep, stretching, pumping fast until I’m dripping, my moans echoing off tiles. “So fucking tight,” he snarls, smearing my wetness over my clit, circling hard until I’m trembling, on the edge.
I need him—now. I glance back, eyes locked on his, and he reads me, gripping my hips, bruising, as he lines up. He thrusts in, one savage stroke, his cock splitting me open, so deep I scream, the stretch a delicious ache. He’s merciless, pounding me, the bench creaking, my body jolting with each brutal drive. Water streams from his hair, dripping onto my back, mixing with sweat as he fucks me like he owns me. His hand fists my hair, yanking my head back, forcing my spine to arch, and he slaps my ass again, the sting pushing me closer to oblivion. “Take it,” he growls, and I do, meeting his thrusts, my pussy clenching, greedy for every inch.
It’s not just his cock—thick, dragging, hitting that spot that makes me see stars—it’s the power, the way he breaks me and builds me up. His hand snakes around, fingers rubbing my clit, rough and fast, and I’m unraveling, pleasure coiling tight. My tits bounce, scraping the bench, raw and sensitive, and he leans over, biting my shoulder, hard enough to mark, pain blooming into ecstasy. “Come, Tessa,” he commands, and I shatter—my orgasm a roar, a scream ripping free, my cunt spasming, milking him as waves crash through me. He’s relentless, fucking me through it, then pulls out, spinning me to my knees. I open my mouth, and he comes, hot ropes painting my tongue, my lips, dripping down my chin as I swallow, his groan a primal hymn.
We’re still, steam swirling, my knees bruised on wet tiles, his hand gentling in my hair. But his eyes—those gray storms—hold a shadow, a flicker of recognition that chills me. “You’re not just a runaway,” he says, low, and I stiffen, fear slicing through the haze. Who is he to my past? I stand, shaky, pulling my jeans up, his cum still on my lips. “Don’t come back,” he warns, but his gaze lingers, heavy with secrets. I leave the Razor’s Edge, fog swallowing me, my body marked, my mind racing—Knox is a fire I’ll chase, even if it’s my undoing.