Pagan tore open the front of Ashelin's sarong and she punched him in the face. He tackled her midsection and threw her down on the table, dishes clattering. She grabbed a candlestick and swung at his face, spraying hot wax over both of them.
He slammed her wrists down and dove at her wildly, taking a nipple between his teeth. She let out an angry moan, and drove her knee up between them to shove him off of her. He staggered back and she leapt up, adrenaline and alcohol making her shake.
They stood, staring at each other, her a disheveled mess and he bleeding and covered in wax.
It felt like a million years and a millisecond all at once, all heavy breathing and clouded eyes.
Pagan grasped the collar of his perfectly pressed shirt and tore it open with a growl. Buttons flew and Ashelin was surprised at his chiseled chest. He waited a moment to see if she would run, and when she didn't, he was on her.
He lifted her, arms flailing, and slammed her against his painting. He reached down and freed his cock from his pants and she clawed at his chest. He drove his hard dick into her and she squealed in shock and pleasure.
He snarled into her throat as he hate fucked her, finding her so wet. She dug her nails into the back of his neck, barely able to hold on with her legs as he mercilessly pistoned into her.
It didn't take them long to come, the orgasm blinding them both into a muddled heap on the floor.
Ashelin rolled off of him and they laid there, chests heaving.
"Stay with me tonight." Pagan said, and it wasn't a request. "My last night."
"No." She rolled her head to meet his heavy lidded gaze. "You're not going to die tomorrow."