Chapter 25
Hannah
Don’t look away.
His touch leaves a trail of warmth that makes it hard to think. Every breath feels heavier, as though the air itself has thickened around us.
It draws me in, the way he reads me. Like every small sound I make gives him directions only he can understand.
I’ve imagined this many times, being open and vulnerable beneath him, but nothing prepared me for the reality.
The way his eyes soften when he looks at me, the subtle pressure of his hands as if he’s checking if I’m ready. He’s patient, even in his intensity.
I want to lean into him. Into this moment. I want to let myself feel everything he’s offering.
But there’s a whisper of doubt: What if I’m reading this wrong? What if this is too much, too soon? My heart hammers, fear and want twisting together.
He leans closer, and I feel his forehead press against mine.
His nearness steadies me in a way I didn’t realize I needed. I feel grounded, fully immersed in this moment with him. My doubts shrink in his presence.
His fingers find mine, entwining gently, and he places a kiss on them. For a moment, the world outside this room doesn’t exist. All I can do is breathe him in, feel him, and give myself over to the pull between us.
I let my hands follow his arms to his shoulders, tracing the lines of his kutte and the patches on it. One hand snakes into his hair while the other pulls his torso into me. His head dips, allowing our lips to find each other again.
My mouth opens and invites him deeper. His kiss is everything and not enough all at once. It leaves me both satiated and hungry. If he can break me open just from his kiss, I want to know what else he can do to me.
For a long moment, we simply exist here, connected in ways I didn’t realize I’d been craving. Not about control, not about need, not even about desire—it’s about being seen by someone who doesn’t want to change me.
Someone who wants me and not just the idea of me.
And in that closeness, I let go of my fear. I let go of the doubts. I let myself want him completely.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, and I tug upward. “This needs to go,” I half-whisper.
He smirks at me as he rises onto his knees, slowly leaving the bed. I watch him, confused, as he crosses my bedroom. Carefully, he folds his kutte and places it over my office chair, then pulls his shirt over his head—eyes on mine.
He pulls the gun from his waistband and sets it on my desk, then does the same with the one in his pocket.
He begins striding back toward me.
“Nu-uh. Not so fast. That one needs to go too,” I say, pointing at his white tank undershirt.
He glances at the shirt with a quizzical look.
“Yes,” I insist with a smile, “That would be the one. Off, please.”
He smiles as he removes the shirt.
Sauntering back over, he says, “You know, you’re completely overdressed now.”
“Oh, am I? Says who?” I tease, letting a grin tug at my lips.
Sarge returns to the bed, reclaiming his spot above me.
“Says me,” he murmurs, nipping at my bottom lip before he kisses me.
I trace my fingers along the line of his shoulders, feeling the subtle waves of muscle beneath my touch. Every small movement is deliberate, teasing, and magnetic, making it impossible to think clearly.
I grab the bottom of my shirt and begin pulling it upward.
“You don’t need to, I was only teasing.” His voice is low and warm, like a flame.
Excitement and longing mix in my stomach as I pull my shirt off. “I want to.”
He leans in slowly, his forehead brushing mine, and I can feel him watching me, really watching me, in that quiet way he does. I immediately become more aware of the intensity between us.
There’s power in him, sure, but there’s something else, too. Something careful. Gentle. It’s a mix that makes me want to trust him, even though every part of me knows better.
“I need you to know that I want you for more than this,” he says, eyes steady on mine.
I nod because I don’t know what to say. I think I believe him, but saying that out loud feels like handing him a loaded weapon. This right here is usually all guys ever want.
What boys want.
But Sarge doesn’t seem like them. He’s not hiding behind some act. The way he checks in after every touch, never pushing past what I let him. It’s... different.
Different in a way that scares me a little.
My hands move on their own, sliding up the lines of his chest. I trace the shape of him, trying to memorize what he feels like—solid, warm, steady. Every breath and movement between us sends a spark through me.
We move together almost like a dance. Kissing and exploring each other. Testing boundaries, feeling out the rhythm between us.. I feel his length pressing into me, and I shamelessly grind against it.
The friction of my movement against him pulls a low, rough sound from his throat, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine. Hearing the way my body affects him makes me feel powerful and beautiful.
His hand tightens briefly on my hip, not to stop me, but to anchor himself, like he’s fighting to keep his control.
Every nerve in me awakens, every thought consumed by the rhythm we’re creating. He begins moving his hips into me, slow and hard, a promise behind each grind into me. Showing how he would move inside of me if we had no barriers between us.
“Sarge,” I beg, my voice barely more than a whisper. His mouth clamps down onto mine while his hand cups my entrance through my jeans.
The kiss is an assurance, a vow, and I meet it with equal force, letting myself sink into the taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way his breath hitches when my nails graze his skin.
My lips leave his, reluctantly, but I need to tell him something before I change my mind. “I’ve been protecting myself from...” I gesture my head towards our interlocked bodies, “this. Having feelings for someone else, letting them into my world. It doesn’t tend to go well for me.”
I bite my bottom lip immediately regretting my words. Being vulnerable is hard, and it’s especially hard when you’ve been trained to expect others to use your vulnerabilities against you.
“You make me want to try again,” I confess.
His hand glides slowly up my side, mapping every curve as if he’s committing me to memory. The calluses on his fingers catch lightly against my skin, and the rough against soft sends a jolt through me.
I arch into him, and he takes the invitation, his lips trailing from my mouth to the sensitive spot just below my ear.
“I don’t take this privilege lightly, Hannah. Because that’s what this is—a privilege.” His voice rumbles low, still against my ear. “Being with you is a damn luxury. One I plan to appreciate every single inch of.”
He nips at my ear, followed by a sprinkle of kisses to my neck, where he bites. Hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to claim his territory. To remind me that, right now, he is in control of my pleasure.
With him still over me, my hands fumble on his waistband to find his button. I eventually succeed. He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against my collarbone, and helps me, his movements steady where mine are impatient.
He kisses me as his cargo pants slide away, and I feel the shift in him—his restraint fraying, his breathing growing uneven. It’s thrilling, knowing I’m unraveling him as much as he’s unraveling me.
Then I notice it.
I feel his heat. His bare skin against me.
Sarge is completely naked.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, heat flooding my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—I only meant to take off your jeans.” Why am I embarrassed?
Isn’t nakedness the point of this moment?
“Baby, don’t apologize,” he says, his voice low and warm, nipping my bottom lip. “Pants were all I had on. Haven’t worn boxers since high school. Shit bunches up on me.”
Oh.
I tug at the hem of my shorts, but he stops me, his hands hovering over mine, eyes searching my face. “You don’t have to—” he starts, but I shake my head, cutting him off.
“I know,” I say, my voice steady. I shimmy out of the fabric, kicking it aside. The cool air against my wet core sends a shiver through me, pebbling my nipples.
Sarge doesn’t miss a beat as he pulls down the cup of my bra, taking an eager, hardened bud into his mouth with a starved hunger.
While sucking and biting on one side, he grips the other in his hand and begins massaging, playing with the sensitive point between his fingers.
He breaks his mouth free from my breast, casting his gaze down at me as if I’m something sacred, something he’s afraid to break yet can’t stop touching.
He pulls the straps of my bra over my shoulders until my chest is free of its fabric prison.
I feel so vulnerable, lying in only my panties.
I’m half worried he’s about to change his mind when he says, “I knew you were beautiful, but I couldn’t have dreamed you were this beautiful.”
A shy look crosses my face, and I look away. I can’t meet his intense stare while processing what he just said. I have no idea how to respond to that.
My instinct is to deflect, to hide from the intensity of his gaze, but Sarge doesn’t let me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face back to his. His eyes are burning with something that’s equal parts desire and reverence, and it makes my breath catch.
“Don’t look away,” he orders, his voice low and rough, like gravel smoothed by high-end brandy. “I mean it, Hannah. You’re fucking perfect to me.”
Sarge eases his muscled frame to the edge of my bed, his battered arm steady as he lowers his bearded face to my thighs, the soft glow of my bedside lamp catching the hunger in his gray-green eyes.
His lips track a slow, rough path from my knee to my already dripping cunt. The scrape of his coarse beard sets my skin on fire, each kiss pulling a whimper I can’t hold back.
“Um... wait. You don’t have to do—” I start, but I’m cut short by a sharp pain.
Looking down, I see he’s bitten my inner thigh hard enough to leave a red ring. For a moment, I stare at it, loving how his mark looks on me.