Chapter Thirty-Two #2
I drag my tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein there, and his whole body jerks. His grip in my hair tightens, and I moan around him, letting him feel how much I love this — love him — love the way he loses himself in my mouth.
“Riley.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “I can't... fuck, I can't take it anymore.”
I pull back slowly, letting him slip from between my lips, and look up at him. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, water streaming down his body, and his eyes are wild, desperate, hungry, on the very edge of control.
“Then take me,” I whisper.
Something snaps behind his eyes.
His hands are under my arms before I can blink, hauling me up from the shower floor as if I weigh nothing.
My back hits the cool tile and I gasp at the contrast — cold wall, hot water, burning man pressed against every inch of my front.
His mouth crashes into mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back.
“Hold on to me,” he growls against my lips.
I do. My arms circle his neck, fingers digging into the wet muscles of his shoulders as he positions himself at my entrance. The anticipation is unbearable — I can feel him there, thick and hard and so close — and I whimper, trying to sink down onto him.
“Breaker, please."
He thrusts.
The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, everything I need.
I cry out, the sound bouncing off the tile, mixing with the rush of water and his guttural groan.
He fills me completely, buried to the hilt, and for a moment neither of us moves.
We just breathe together, foreheads pressed together, adjusting to the feeling of being joined.
“You okay, Riley?” he rasps, and even now, even lost in his own need, he checks on me. My heart swells.
“More than okay.” I roll my hips experimentally, and we both moan. “Now move. Fuck me.”
He doesn't need to be told twice.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me pinned against the wall as he pulls back and fills me again.
The angle is deep and perfect — he hits that spot inside me with every thrust, the one that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
I cling to him, nails raking down his back, leaving marks that the water immediately tries to wash away.
“Yes," I gasp. "Just like that.”
The rhythm he sets is consuming, powerful, perfect.
Each thrust drives the breath from my lungs, sends pleasure ricocheting through every nerve ending until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
The water pounds down on us, hot and endless, and I'm drowning in sensation — the slap of wet skin, the grip of his fingers bruising my thighs, the way his breath comes in ragged pants against my neck.
“So tight,” he groans, teeth grazing my shoulder. “So fucking perfect, Sparrow.”
I can't form words. Can only feel. Can only hold on as he takes me apart with every powerful thrust. My back slides against the wet tile, and he adjusts his grip, hiking me higher, changing the angle so he goes even deeper.
I scream — actually scream — and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me like he's trying to consume me whole.
“That's it," he growls against my lips. "Let me hear you. Want everyone to know you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through me. I am his. Completely, irrevocably his. And right now, pinned against this shower wall with him buried inside me, I wouldn't have it any other way.
I can’t help myself. I reach between us, my fingers finding my clit, and I rub myself, moaning, while he fucks me senseless. The pressure builds impossibly fast, coiling tighter and tighter at the base of my spine.
“Breaker," I gasp. “I'm close. Oh, fuck, I'm so close.”
“Come for me," he commands, voice wrecked and raw. “Come on my cock, Riley.”
The orgasm rips through me like lightning.
My whole body convulses around him, muscles clenching so tight I see stars.
I cry out his name — or maybe just a sound without meaning beyond primal pleasure — as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashes through me.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps driving into me with that relentless rhythm, extending the climax until I'm sobbing against his shoulder.
“Fuck," he groans, his own rhythm faltering. “Feeling you come... I can't hold back..."
“Don't," I manage, still trembling with aftershocks. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”
His hips stutter, then slam forward one last time.
I feel him pulse inside me — hot and deep and claiming — as he buries his face in my neck and groans my name like it's the only word he knows.
His whole body shudders against mine, and I hold him through it, fingers gentle now in his hair, pressing kisses to his temple as the water continues to cascade over us.
“I love you,” I murmur.
“I love you, too,” he echoes.
For a while, it’s nothing but us, together, with the only sound our breathing and the water cascading over our combined bodies.
I don’t want this moment to end. Don’t want us to separate.
I want to stay here, together, with him, forever, with the rest of the world never intruding upon our tile-walled sanctuary.
But I know that’s a fantasy. A tempting one, but a fantasy nonetheless.
“We should dry off,” he says.
And I nod. “We should.”
He slowly sets me down outside the shower, and I grab myself a towel and one for him, too.
The towel is soft against my skin as I dry off, watching the last traces of glitter swirl down the drain like tiny fallen stars.
My muscles ache in the best way possible, and there's a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the steam still lingering in the air.
"We've got time before anyone needs us," Breaker says, wrapping his towel around his waist. His voice is low, satisfied, still rough from everything we just did. "Come lie down with me."
The smile that spreads across my face is involuntary, unstoppable. Just the thought of curling up beside him, of feeling his arms around me, of existing in that perfect pocket of peace we create together — it's everything I never let myself believe I could have.
"I'll be right there," I tell him. “I’m just going to clean up a little.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a moment like he's breathing me in, and then he's gone, padding barefoot toward the bedroom. I watch him go, my heart so full it almost hurts.
I gather the wet clothes from the shower floor — my soaked shirt and jeans, his glitter-dusted shirt and jeans. Something tumbles from the pocket of his jeans, landing on the wet tile with a soft slap.
I bend to pick it up, and my fingers freeze.
It's a photograph. Crumpled. Stained.
Stained with something dark and rust-colored that I recognize immediately, which sends ice flooding through my veins even as the bathroom air stays thick with steam.
Blood.
The photograph is of me.
I can't breathe. My lungs have forgotten how to work, and my hands are shaking so badly the image blurs, but I know what I'm looking at. It's me in the parking lot. Here.
He is so close. Watching me. Following me. Able to get to me whenever he wants.
A thousand questions crash through my mind, each one more terrible than the last. Each one wrapping itself around my throat, squeezing, choking, in the same way he used to do.
The blood — whose blood is it? What does it mean? Is he killing others now? How long until he does it to me?
With shaking hands, I shove the photo back into Breaker’s pocket and leave the clothes in a pile on the floor.
My heart thuds in my chest like a wild animal, but I keep my face still as I slip into the bedroom and lie down beside Breaker, who is already on the verge of drifting off into smiling sleep.
He slips a large arm around me, pulling me to his bare chest and planting a gentle kiss against my cheek.
It isn’t long before his breathing deepens, and I know he’s asleep.
I shut my eyes and try to join him. Try to feel safe enough to sleep.
But all I can see behind my eyelids is that photo of me, covered in blood.