Chapter Sixteen
Riley
His laugh is low and rough as he lets me pull him through the crowd, past the whistles and catcalls, past Molly's knowing smirk and Tank's booming approval. My heart pounds so hard I swear he can feel it through my fingers.
The hallway to his room feels longer than I remember. Every step is charged, electric, the heat of his hand in mine sending sparks up my arm. When we reach his door, I fumble with the handle, suddenly nervous, suddenly aware of what I'm doing.
Then his chest presses against my back, warm and solid, and his breath ghosts across my ear. "You sure about this, Sparrow?"
I turn to face him, back against the door. His eyes are dark, searching, giving me every chance to change my mind. But I don't want to change my mind. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly what I want.
"I'm sure."
The word barely leaves my lips before his mouth finds mine.
This kiss differs from the one in the bar. That was a statement, a declaration. This is a question, soft and searching, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. His hands cup my face as if I'm something precious, something he's afraid to break.
I reach behind me, twist the handle, and we stumble through together.
The room is dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds, casting everything in silver and shadow. He kicks the door closed and we're alone — really alone — for the first time since that moment in the garage.
I pull him closer, fingers fisting in his shirt, and the kiss deepens. He tastes of whiskey and something darker, something that makes my head spin. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, down my arms, settling at my waist with a grip that's firm but careful.
A moan escapes me — small, involuntary — and I feel him shudder in response.
"Riley." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a warning all at once.
"Don't stop," I whisper against his mouth. "Please don't stop."
He groans, and the sound vibrates through me, pooling low in my belly. His hands tighten at my waist, pulling me flush to his body, and I can feel the evidence of how much he wants this pressed against my hip.
The kiss turns hungry. His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming, demanding, and I give him everything. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from his jeans, desperate to feel skin.
He pulls back just enough to yank it over his head, and I lose my breath.
He's beautiful. Scarred and tattooed and built like something carved from stone. My hands trace the lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the thick ropes of muscle across his shoulders. He watches me explore, chest heaving, jaw tight with restraint.
Then I see something that makes me stop. A fresh bandage placed around his right collarbone.
“What’s this?” I say.
“Job hazard. Nothing serious,” he says. Before I can press more, he kisses me, and words, thoughts, questions — they all disappear from my mind like exhaust in the wind.
Another kiss and another, and then his body is against mine and I’m pinned to the wall in just the right way.
There’s nothing behind me except something solid, and there’s nothing in front of me except what I want: him.
“My turn,” I murmur, my hands reaching for the bottom of my shirt, lifting it.
His hands catch mine, stopping me.
"Let me," he says, voice rough as gravel.
I nod, heart hammering, and let my arms fall to my sides. He takes the hem of my shirt between his fingers, slow, reverent, like he's unwrapping something sacred. The fabric slides up my stomach, over my ribs, and I lift my arms so he can pull it free.
The cool air hits my skin and I shiver — not from cold, but from the way he looks at me. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. Like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"Christ, Riley." His voice is barely a whisper. "You're beautiful."
I want to deflect, to make a joke, to hide behind humor the way I always do. But the raw honesty in his eyes steals the words from my throat. Instead, I reach for him, pulling him close, and the first press of skin against skin makes us both gasp.
He's warm. So warm. And solid in a way that makes me feel anchored for the first time in months. Years, maybe.
His mouth finds my neck, trailing kisses down to my collarbone, and my head falls back against the wall.
Every nerve ending I have lights up at his touch.
When his teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, a sound escapes me — needy, desperate, nothing like the careful, controlled woman I've trained myself to be.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you, Sparrow."
And somehow, impossibly, I believe him.
His hands move to my back, finding the clasp of my bra with surprising deftness. It falls away, and his breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I fight the urge to cover myself, to hide the vulnerability of being seen.
Then he drops to his knees.
The sight of this man — this powerful, dangerous, beautiful man — kneeling before me like I'm something worth worshiping makes my chest ache with an emotion I can't name.
His hands settle on my hips, thumbs tracing circles on my skin, and he presses a kiss to my stomach that's so tender it brings tears to my eyes.
"Breaker," I whisper, fingers threading through his hair.
He looks up at me, and the intensity in his gaze steals what's left of my breath. "Tell me what you want."
"You." The word comes out broken, honest. "I just want you."
Something shifts in his expression — a wall crumbling, a door opening.
He rises in one fluid motion, lifting me as he goes, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
Three steps and we're at the bed. He lays me down as if I'm made of glass, then stands there, looking down at me with an expression that's equal parts hunger and hesitation.
"Riley." His voice is raw, burning.
His fingers find the buttons to my jeans, his eyes meet mine, looking for an answer.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I want that.”
His hands are steady as they find the button of my jeans, even though I can see the tension coiled in every line of his body.
The metallic rasp of the zipper sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room, and then he's easing the denim down my hips, my thighs, my calves — slow, deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch of skin he reveals.
I shiver as the cool air kisses my legs, but his hands follow immediately after, warm and rough, smoothing over my calves as he pulls the jeans free and tosses them somewhere into the shadows.
He stands there for a moment, just looking at me.
I'm laid out before him in nothing but simple cotton underwear, and I've never felt more exposed in my life.
More seen. The vulnerability should terrify me — it has terrified me, with other men, in other moments that turned sharp and cruel.
But the way Breaker looks at me... it's not predatory. It's reverent.
"So fucking beautiful," he breathes, and the words land somewhere deep in my chest, warming places that have been cold for so long. “You can’t be real.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, and he pauses, eyes meeting mine one more time. Asking.
I lift my hips in answer.
He slides the fabric down slowly, achingly slowly, and I'm bare before him. Completely bare. The last of my armor stripped away.
For a heartbeat, panic flutters in my chest — old instincts, old fears, the ghost of hands that took instead of asked. But then Breaker kneels at the foot of the bed, and his lips press against the arch of my foot, and every dark thought scatters like smoke in the wind.
The kiss is soft. Almost chaste. But it sends electricity shooting up my leg, and I gasp at the unexpected intensity of it.
He smiles against my skin — I can feel the curve of his lips — and then his mouth moves higher. The inside of my ankle. The curve of my calf. Each kiss is deliberate, worshipful, like he's mapping territory he intends to claim, and I ache to give to him.
My hands fist in the sheets as his lips trail over my knee, lingering at the sensitive hollow behind it. I didn't even know I could feel things there, but his tongue traces a small circle and my back arches off the bed.
"Breaker," I gasp, and his name sounds like a plea.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, the words vibrating through me. "Let me take care of you."
His mouth moves to my inner thigh, and the world narrows to nothing but sensation. Soft lips. Rough stubble scraping delicate skin. The hot brand of his breath as he works his way higher, impossibly slow, driving me to the edge of madness with every passing second.
My thighs tremble. I can't help it. The anticipation is a living thing, coiling tighter and tighter in my core, and I'm not sure if I want to beg him to hurry or to never, ever stop.
He presses a kiss to the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I make a sound I've never heard from myself before — a shaking, desirous, broken noise that knows exactly what it wants: him.
His hands slide beneath me, cupping the curve of my backside, tilting me toward him like I'm an offering he's finally ready to accept.
"Look at me," he says, voice rough as sandpaper.
I force my eyes open, force myself to meet his gaze. What I see there undoes me completely. There's hunger, yes; it’s raw and primal and undeniable. But beneath it is something softer. Something that looks terrifyingly like tenderness.
Then his mouth finds me, and I shatter.
The first touch of his lips is gentle and exploratory. A question. My hips buck involuntarily, and his hands tighten, holding me steady as his tongue traces a slow, devastating path through my center. The sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not nearly enough all at once.
"Oh god," I breathe, fingers releasing the sheets to tangle in his hair instead. "Breaker, I—"