Chapter 24 Warren
TWENTY-FOUR
Warren
The moment the words leave my mouth — all I can think about is you — I already know I’ve gone too far to take them back.
Her wine glass slips from her hand, shattering against the hard floor, but neither of us looks down.
My body’s already moving, hauling her out of the chair and into my lap like it’s the only place she belongs. My mouth crashes onto hers, hot and demanding, five years of restraint snapping like a thread pulled too tight.
I’ve imagined this more times than I’ll ever admit—through the years she was gone, through the nights I tried to forget, even after I swore I’d never touch her again.
But none of those fantasies prepared me for now. For the way she tastes. Sweet, sharp, defiant. Like kissing her is the same thing as losing control, and I’ve built my whole life on control.
She moans into me, lips parting for the thrust of my tongue. My hands can’t keep up with the hunger in me. I fist her hair, dragging down her back, cupping her ass like I’ve waited half my life to get my hands on her.
The chair tips back as I stand, her legs cinching around my waist, heels digging into my ass like she’d chain me to her if she could. I stumble us toward the rug in front of the fire, lowering her onto it in a mess of limbs and moans.
The flames crack and pop, shadows flickering across her flushed face as I yank her sweater over her head.
Her bra is gone a second later, the swell of her breast filling my hand before my mouth closes over her nipple. She cries out, a sound that detonates straight in my chest, and arches into me.
The sound she makes nearly undoes me. Christ, all of the shit that has stopped me before now, none of that matters with her arching into my mouth, her nails digging like she needs me as much as I need her.
“Fuck, Warren!” Her fingers tear through my hair, yanking, holding me tighter as I lick and bite, moving lower, lower, until I’m shoving her leggings down, lips skating over the inside of her thigh.
The scent of her wrecks me. One taste and I’m lost, groaning into her dripping heat as my tongue finds her clit, flicking, plunging, sucking hard enough to make her hips buck clean off the rug.
“Oh my God—” The words fall apart on a moan that makes my cock ache.
I devour her like a starving man, tongue and lips working until she’s writhing, shameless sounds spilling from her throat.
Every groan rattles through me, vibrating in my chest as I hold her open, lapping, sucking, refusing to stop until her thighs quake against my shoulders.
Her cry rips into the night, sharp and violent, her orgasm tearing through her until she’s shaking apart in my hands.
But I don’t stop. Not until she’s tugging me up, clawing at my shirt, cooing my name like it’s the only one she’s ever known.
I cover her mouth with mine again, tasting her, stubble scraping her skin as I grind against her. She fumbles with my shirtsqqq, panting against my lips.
“Off,” she begs. “Now.”
I swear under my breath, tearing my shirt over my head in one savage pull, hands already at my belt. The zipper rasps loud in the quiet night before I’m kicking free, my cock hard and straining against her stomach, her body jerking at the heat of it.
“Condom,” she demands, reaching for my jeans. I fumble for my wallet, tearing the foil, rolling it on with shaking hands before sliding back down between her thighs.
One drag against her lubricated folds and I’m gone. I slam into her in one hard thrust, stealing her scream as she clutches at my shoulders. Goddamn, she’s tight.
Heat courses through me, brutal and sharp. She’s wrapped around me like she was made for this, and it’s too much, too fast.
I grit my teeth, trying to hold the line, but there’s no line left. Every thrust shreds another piece of the control I’ve spent years perfecting, and all I can think is how easy it would be to lose myself in her. To forget the secrets. To forget the five years she kept my son from me.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I growl against her jaw, teeth scraping as my hips piston into hers. Every thrust drives me deeper, the rug burning her back, the fire painting us in flickering gold. Her legs lock high around my waist, hauling me closer, demanding more.
“Harder,” she commands, her nails clawing down my back, and I can’t deny her.
I grind in brutally, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside. The filthy slap of our bodies echoes in the quiet night, mixing with her cries, my grunts, and the crackle of the fire.
“Look at me.” My hand fists in her hair, jerking her gaze to mine. Her eyes are wild, blown wide with need. “Look at me when you say my name, Janie.”
“Warren—” She sobs it out, her body bowing under me, desperate to take all I’m giving her.
The sound tears through me, snapping something I can’t get back. I snarl, shoving her knees higher over my shoulders. The new angle is devastating. Each thrust punches straight into her sweet spot until she’s screaming, until she grips me greedily, pulling me deeper.
Her orgasm undoes her, leaving her limp and spent, and I can’t hold back.
My body takes over, chasing hers. There’s no space left in my head for logic, for doubts, for Blake or betrayal or any of the reasons this isn't right. There’s only her, squeezing tight around me, screaming my name. And I let go. God help me, I let go.
“Goddamn,” I grit, hips losing rhythm as I pound harder, deeper, until I bury myself to the hilt. My whole body seizes as I spill into the condom, groaning her name into her throat, still grinding, still holding on like I’ll split in two if I stop.
The fire pops beside us as we collapse together, sweat dripping, breaths ragged.
I can’t stop kissing her. Her jaw, her throat, frantic and messy like I’m starving for every inch of her.
She cradles my face, pulls me back to her lips, and this kiss is slower, sweeter, dangerous in a way raw sex never is.
The fire throws sparks again, and she jolts under me, laughing breathlessly. Her chest heaves against mine, her skin hot and damp. The rug scratches my knees where I knelt, and she shifts under me with a wince.
“God,” she groans, half laugh, half complaint. “I think I’m going to have rug burns in places I shouldn’t.”
The sound makes me huff out a laugh against her neck, my lips brushing her damp skin. My weight pins her deliciously to the floor, but after a moment she squirms, too hot, too confined. I brace on my forearm, lifting off her.
“You okay?” My voice is raw, edges frayed.
“Raw. Sore. And very aware this isn’t exactly a feather mattress.” She drags a hand over her forehead, hair sticking damp.
I can’t help it. I grin down at her and brush a strand from her face.
My fingers linger, and I know I’m in dangerous territory, because tenderness is something I don’t survive well.
Sleeping with her again, after everything, isn’t just giving in to desire.
It’s admitting there’s still something between us I can’t kill, no matter how hard I try.
Her throat bobs up and down, and she forces a laugh. “I feel like I’ve been rolled in honey and set next to a bonfire.”
I laugh low, still vibrating in my chest. “That’s a mental picture.”
“Sticky,” she adds, shifting with another wince. “And if I stay on this floor, I’ll fuse to it.”
I push higher, my gaze dragging over her, and damn if she doesn’t make me forget every complaint. “You’re telling me you want to move? After that?”
She bites her lip, heat sparking again. “I want a shower.”
“Together?” I ask, my grin crooked, already knowing the answer.
“Obviously.”
Her boldness guts me, and I can’t resist stealing another kiss, slow and messy, our breaths tangling. “Lead the way, Harrelson. Before I talk you into round two on this rug.”
Steam curls as she cranks the water on.
The last time I stood in a bathroom with a woman, it was clinical. There was a toothbrush on the counter, a towel folded just so. Order. Control. That’s what I thought I needed.
But watching Janie step into the water, hair tumbling, skin flushed, I realize I’ve been lying to myself. What I need is mess.
What I need is her.
My body aches, sore in every muscle, but stepping in behind her nearly undoes me. Her back meets my chest, sopping and hot, water pounding over us. My hands slide up her arms, circle her waist, and she melts back against me like she belongs there.
I kiss the curve of her damp neck, stubble rasping over sensitive skin. She shivers, knees buckling slightly.
“Turn around,” I murmur, voice rough.
She does, water sluicing between us, and I pin her gently against the tile. Not with a kiss, with care. I lather soap in my hands, starting at her shoulders, working down slowly. She watches me, wide-eyed, as I knead, circle, soothe.
It isn’t about sex. It’s worse. It’s care.
She trembles as I soap her arms, her stomach, her hips.
“You don’t have to—” she whispers, voice cracking.
“I want to.” My tone is quiet, firm, no room for argument.
Her eyes shine, and it hits me square in the chest.
I crouch, hands sliding down her thighs, lifting one leg over my shoulder. For a second, she stutters, thinking I’ll take her again. Instead, I soap carefully behind her knee, down her calf, around her ankle, before setting her foot gently back. Then the other.
When I rise, she’s shaking. I rinse her slowly, sweeping suds from her skin, lingering where rug burn scraped her raw. Red marks I should’ve prevented. My jaw tightens.
“It’s nothing,” she whispers.
“It’s not nothing.” My thumb grazes tender skin again.
The water roars, but it’s only her and me. I cup her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, and kiss her slowly, patiently, memorizing every curve.
For the first time all night, I stop thinking about what comes next.
By the time we collapse into her bed, I’m clean and wrecked. The sheets are cool, the fan humming above, her body soft against mine. My arm falls heavily across her stomach, holding her like I can keep her here if I try hard enough.
Silence stretches, broken only by our breathing. I could let it stand, close to drifting off, but she whispers, “What are we doing?”
I blow out a rough breath. “Enjoying our Thanksgiving.”
She turns to look at me, no tease in her eyes. “We can’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
“No.” My thumb traces her hip, steady, grounding me. “But we can’t pretend it’s simple, either.”
She swallows, voice catching. “I have to protect him. If this blows up, Beckett’s the one caught in the middle.”
I know. Christ, I know. My hand tightens on her hip. “That’s why I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep. Not to you, not to him. This is all still new, Janie. There's still a lot of pain between us. Can we just allow ourselves some time?”
My chest aches as I say it, because part of me wants to make pledges, to tell her I’ll fix everything, that she can trust me to never falter.
But I know better. I’ve seen promises rot. My father promised he’d be proud of me. My mother promised she’d stand by me, protect me. Promises are worth shit when the ground caves under them.
Her face falls, but she doesn’t argue.
“So what, then?”
I stare at her, weighing the truth, the lies, all of it. Finally, I rasp, “We keep it quiet. See where it goes. I don’t know if this is possible. Let's work through it together before we decide where this goes. I'm not ready to give up. That has to be enough.”
The words taste like defeat even as they leave me. Because I want more. I want everything.
But the picture in my head is all jumbled. I see Blake’s face when he finds out, her parents’ disappointment, and the trust she has already shattered. I can’t let myself believe in a future I’m not sure we can survive.
She nods, even though the words make her stomach twist. “So this is…just sex?”
My jaw locks. God, no. But I can’t call it more. Not yet. “If that’s all it is, I wouldn’t have risked everything to be here. But I don’t know how to define it beyond that.”
Her eyes glisten. She blinks fast, then tucks into my chest, trusting me in ways I don’t deserve. My hand finds her hair, stroking slowly.
The questions hang in the dark, unanswered, unanswerable. Blake. Her parents. The five years she hid my son. Every obstacle is waiting to break us.
But I can’t walk away.
So I hold her, knowing I’m clinging to something that could ruin us both. And for tonight, that’s the only answer I’ve got.