Chapter 49 Losing Your Touch Old Man
LOSING YOUR TOUCH OLD MAN
Like You Mean It - Steven Rodriguez
Kookaburra
It’s funny how loud laughter sounds when everyone else is already dead.
I quickly got used to the quiet and now the intruding footsteps sound like gunshots.
A smarter woman would run. When everything around me is dead, ghosts shouldn’t make noise.
But I never claimed to be smart.Just fucking amazing.
The steps break off, heading in different directions and I pause, holding my breath, eager to see what’s coming around the corner.
Friend or foe? Either will be fun I guess.
I freeze when he appears, my delighted grin stretching from ear to ear the only movement in the corridor as we stare at one another.
His twinkling eyes narrow on me and I light up.
It’s on.
Run, he mouths.
I spin and take off running, delighted by the thrill of the chase.
Finally.
I’ve missed this.
I hit the corner hard, boots skidding just enough to feel reckless, just enough to make it fun. The corridor opens into a wider service hall, lights flickering overhead like they’re complicit. I don’t slow down. I want him hungry. I want him calculating.
Behind me, there’s no sound at first – and that’s how I know I’m being hunted.
Hatchet never wastes noise.
My lungs burn as I take the stairs two at a time, laughter bubbling up and out of me before I can stop it. It echoes, bright and unhinged, and I know he hears it. Knows exactly what it means. I’m not scared. I’m inviting him to come get me.
I vault a railing, land hard, roll, pop back up.
The whole place smells like metal and ozone, but under it there’s him – clean, sharp, restrained to the point of violence.
I glance back just in time to see him round the corner, broad shoulders filling the space, dark clothes moving like they’re part of him instead of something he put on.
His eyes lock on mine.
God. There it is.
He doesn’t run – not at first. He stalks, measured and inevitable, like he knows the end is already written and he’s just enjoying the punctuation. I sprint anyway, heart hammering, nerves singing, every instinct screaming alive alive alive.
I duck into a storage room and shove a crate over, buying myself maybe half a second or two.
Worth it. I’m already moving again, crawling through a maintenance hatch, scraping my palms, leaving a trail I know he’ll read like a love letter.
Run faster, Kayla, I can almost hear him think.
The chase tightens. His footsteps finally hit the floor behind me – heavy, controlled, devastatingly close. Each one lands like a promise. I can feel him smiling without ever seeing it.
I burst back into the corridor and he’s there, closer than physics should allow. A big hand snaps out and catches my wrist. I yelp, delighted, feral, and twist free by the skin of my teeth, laughing as I slip through his fingers.
“Fuck— Yes,” I gasp, half to myself.
Cornered at last, back to a wall, chest heaving. He closes the distance slowly now, deliberately, letting the anticipation coil tight between us. When he stops in front of me, the world narrows to his presence – solid, unyielding, utterly focused.
Then he moves.
Elation surges through me as fingers tangle in my hair and my head is jerked back.
“Fucking finally. I thought you were losing your touch, old man.”
He nips my shoulder in retaliation and I beam, grinding my hips into his crotch. He’s rock hard, loving the chase and this reunion just as much as I am.
The nips turn to kisses and it’s hard not to melt.
Sure, I could fight, get free, run again. But as fun as it is to run, the reward is in getting caught. And I get the feeling we don’t have much time.
“Fuck, I missed this. Missed you,” I groan, closing my eyes and sinking into the sensations coursing through my body. “You gonna fuck me, daddy? You’ll have to be quick before the others find us, ’cause I know you didn’t come here alone.”
His answering sound is a low breath against my neck, a vibration more than a noise, and it sends a thrill straight through me.
Soon. I will get him to speak soon, I vow.
One big hand tightens in my hair, not pulling now – just holding. Claiming. The other settles at my waist, firm and steady, a silent stay. My skin sparks under his touch.
He leans in, forehead to my temple, and I feel him smile without ever seeing it. Hatchet always did say more with stillness than anyone else ever managed with words.
The space feels smaller suddenly. Louder. Every distant creak and echo registers like a countdown.
I laugh softly, reckless and pleased, tilting my head to give him better access. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s what I thought.”
His teeth graze my skin again – warning, promise, punctuation – before he pulls back just enough to look at me properly. Warm brown eyes rake over my face, my mouth, my throat, as if he’s memorising me all over again. As if he hasn’t already.
Two fingers tap once against my hip.
Once more.
A question.
I nod, breathless and sure. Always sure with him.
He squeezes my waist in approval, grounding and intimate, then shifts us both deeper into the shadows, bodies aligned, movement efficient and practiced. The chase might be over, but the game isn’t.
If the others find us, they’ll know exactly what happened here. And honestly? I hope they do.
He doesn’t ask. Of course he doesn’t. He never does.
Hatchet just looks at me – eyes dark, jaw tight, that brutal stillness he wears like armor – and something in my chest sparks, sharp and delighted, like I’ve just dared gravity to blink.
I step into him first. Because I always do.
My palm hits his chest, feeling the heat through layers of fabric, and his breath stutters like I’ve punched a fault line instead of a man. That’s when his hand comes up – big, scar-rough, devastatingly careful – and cups the back of my neck.
No hesitation. No softness.
Just intent.
His mouth crashes into mine, and holy hell – it’s fire and restraint and months of unsaid things all breaking at once.
He kisses like he fights: controlled, punishing, absolutely certain I can take it.
My lips part on instinct, a pleased little hum slipping out because I love when he forgets to be gentle.
He doesn’t forget for long.
His thumb presses just under my ear, tilting my head exactly where he wants it, and the kiss goes deeper, slower, hotter. Not frantic. Never frantic. Hatchet doesn’t lose control – he decides to apply pressure, one calculated inch at a time.
I smile into his mouth because I’m infuriating like that, and I feel it when he notices. The vibration in his chest rolls straight through me. He bites my lower lip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to promise he could.
Message received.
I curl my fingers into his shirt and kiss him back with teeth and heat and absolutely no apologies. If he’s fire, then fine – I’ll be the gasoline. I pull until my back hits the wall, until his body cages me in without ever pinning me, until every inch of him says stay without a single word.
When he finally pulls back, our foreheads touch. His breathing is controlled again. Mine isn’t.
He looks at me like I’m dangerous. I grin, slow and sharp. Good.
His hand moves like a decision already made.
One second it’s braced beside my head, keeping the world neatly boxed in around us, and the next it’s sliding down my side – slow, deliberate, like he’s reminding me he knows exactly where everything is.
Fingers hook into my waistband, rough knuckles grazing bare skin, and I inhale so sharply it feels like my lungs forget their job.
He pauses.
Just enough.
Just long enough for me to feel the question in the stillness – even though he’ll never ask it out loud. His eyes flick to mine, dark and steady, giving me the choice he pretends he doesn’t need.
I rock my hips forward in answer.
That’s all it takes.
His hand plunges in, warm and sure, palm fitting me like it was always meant to be there. I make a sound – unfiltered, pleased, a little wicked – and his jaw tightens like he’s locking something down before it escapes him.
God, he’s hot. Not just temperature – though there’s plenty of that – but presence. The way he touches me like I’m something he’s claimed responsibility for. Like he’ll wreck the world before he mishandles me.
His thumb presses where I’m already aching, slow and devastating, and I laugh breathlessly because of course he knows. Of course he goes straight for the place that makes my knees threaten mutiny.
I tilt my head back against the wall, exposing my throat, watching him watch me. His focus is absolute. Surgical. Reverent in the way only dangerous men ever are.
“Don’t stop,” I murmur, because I like poking the beast.
His response is a firm, warning squeeze to my clit – behave – followed by a deeper slide of his fingers that makes my words dissolve into a gasp.
Mute or not, Daddy Hatchet speaks fluent control.
And he’s saying my name with every touch.
Unhurried.
That’s the worst – best – part of it.
His hand moves with ruthless patience, thumb circling my clit just enough to make my thoughts unravel. Every breath turns shallow, every smart remark evaporates into helpless little sounds I don’t even try to swallow back. He watches me come apart like it’s a task he intends to complete perfectly.
Pressure builds, tight and bright and inevitable.
When it finally hits, it’s like my body forgets where it ends. I break against his hand, pulse stuttering, legs trembling so hard he has to brace me more firmly against the wall. He stays right there through it, grounding me, holding me steady while I ride out the aftershocks.
Only when my breathing starts to even does he move again.
Efficient. Certain.
He nudges my clothes lower, clears the way with the same deliberate care he uses for everything else, eyes never leaving my face.
There’s something dangerously intimate about that – about being watched so closely while my body is still buzzing.
Only he gets this side of me, this vulnerability.
Even the others don’t see me with all my walls down.
Not that I want him to, either. But there’s no denying him anything.
He sees me. Always has. So I may as well give in.
He shifts closer, heat and intent unmistakable, freeing himself with one smooth motion that tells me he’s been just as affected as I have. His cock is hard, pulsing, already dripping for me in a way that makes my mouth water – but there’s no time for that.
Our foreheads touch again. His breath ghosts over my mouth.
No words. No need.
Everything that matters is already happening.