Chapter 12 CAROLINA
TWELVE
CAROLINA
ONE WEEK LATER
Flint's apartment is smaller than I expected—a one-bedroom in a secure building near Guardian HRS, furnished with the kind of functional minimalism that speaks to a man who's rarely home. But it's clean, organized, and the west-facing windows let in golden evening light that softens everything.
"You didn't have to come check on me." He's on the couch, breathing easier now though still moving carefully to protect his healing ribs. The worst of the bruising has faded from black and purple to greenish-yellow.
"You're bored and going stir-crazy," I counter, setting down the takeout I brought—Thai food from the place he mentioned liking. "And your physical therapist called me. Said you're pushing too hard, not resting enough."
"Traitor," he mutters, but there's warmth in his eyes when he looks at me.
I set down takeout—Thai food from his favorite place—and settle beside him carefully.
"Doctor cleared me for light activity," he says, pulling me closer gently. "Ribs are healing well. No more breathing issues."
"Good." I curl into his side, careful of his chest. "Because I officially accepted CJ's offer today. I start next week."
His face lights up. "Yeah? You going to take it?"
"Yes."
His arms tighten around me carefully. "That's fantastic."
We eat in comfortable silence, then talk for hours about everything—my plans for the EOD program, his gradual return to duty, the future we're building.
When the conversation lulls, he turns to me with a serious expression.
"Carolina," he says, voice low. "I need you to know something. What I feel for you—it's not trauma bonding. It's real. You're brilliant, brave, beautiful, and I'm falling for you more every day."
My breath catches. "Flint..."
"You don't have to say it back. I just needed you to know."
"We barely know each other."
"You disarm bombs while staying calmer than most people order coffee. You're brave enough to face your worst nightmare because people need you. You look at me like I matter—not just as a Guardian, but as a person." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "And I want to keep discovering everything else."
I silence him with a kiss, pouring everything I feel into it. When we break apart, we're both breathing carefully—him because of his ribs, me because of emotion.
The kiss starts slow, testing what his healing ribs can handle. But heat builds quickly—a week of careful distance, suppressed want, the bone-deep need to confirm we're both alive and here.
His hands slide into my hair, angling my head. I respond carefully, palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat but being gentle with the still-tender ribs.
The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all the fear and adrenaline of the past week transmuting into something hotter, more immediate.
"Carolina," he breathes against my mouth. "If we keep going…"
"I know." I pull back to meet his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you. Your ribs—"
"Are fine if we're careful." He kisses me again, slower but deeper. "I need you. Need to feel you. Been thinking about it all week."
His answer isn’t words—it’s another kiss. Slower this time, but deeper, hotter, the kind that feels like surrender and promise all tangled together.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, drawing me closer until there’s no space left to think, only the thud of his heartbeat against my chest and the taste of him stealing what’s left of my breath.
His hands slide down my sides, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up, and I arch into the touch.
We navigate his injury carefully—my hands gentle when they encounter bandages, our movements slow and deliberate. I end up straddling his lap, my hands framing his face as I kiss him deeply.
His hands span my waist, sliding up beneath my shirt, calloused palms rough against my skin. The sensation sends shivers through me, heat pooling low in my belly. When his fingers find the clasp of my bra, he pauses, giving me space to refuse.
I don't.
Instead, I pull back long enough to drag my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor beside the couch.
Flint's eyes go dark, pupils blown wide as he takes me in—half-naked in his lap, flushed and wanting.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, then leans forward to press kisses along my collarbone, my shoulder, the upper swell of my breast.
My head falls back, breath coming faster as his mouth explores. His hands are everywhere—spanning my ribs, tracing my spine, mapping every inch of exposed skin with a thoroughness that makes me tremble.
"Bedroom," I manage to gasp out, though the word feels ridiculous when every inch of me is on fire from his touch, his calloused hands sliding up my thighs like he owns them already.
My skin tingles, heat pooling low in my belly, and I can barely think straight with the ache building between my legs.
"You're in charge of the pace," he says, hands spanning my waist. "But God, Carolina, I need you."
I lean in and kiss him fiercely, pouring all my pent-up need into it, my tongue tangling with his to silence any more hesitation.
He chuckles low, a predatory sound that vibrates against my lips. His hands are on my waist, firm, commanding, surprising me with his strength.
His fingers dig into my flesh like he's already mapping out how he'll take me apart.
"Get these off," he orders, voice low and rough, nodding toward his jeans with a tilt of his chin.
I fumble with his belt buckle, my hands trembling with anticipation, the metal clinking softly as I yank it open. The zipper follows, rasping down with a sound that echoes in the charged air, my pulse racing as I feel the heat radiating from him beneath the denim.
He lifts his hips just enough— a controlled, powerful motion despite the wince that flickers across his face—allowing me to shove the jeans and boxers down his legs.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, veins pulsing along its length, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.
God, it's bigger than I imagined during all those stolen glances on the trail, and the sight of it—standing proud for me—sends a fresh wave of heat throbbing between my legs. I’m immediately soaked as I stare, mesmerized.
My mouth waters, and my core clenches in anticipation. God, I've imagined this, fantasized about how he'd feel, but seeing him like this—vulnerable position, yet radiating control—it's intoxicating.
"Climb on and show me how much you want this," he says, his voice a gravelly command as he guides me over him, the head of his cock teasing my slick entrance.
I lower myself slowly, savoring the stretch as he fills me, inch by throbbing inch, a gasp escaping me at the exquisite burn. The sensation is overwhelming—full, perfect, like he was made for me. But even as I start to rock my hips, finding a rhythm, he takes over.
His hands lock onto my ass, dictating the pace, pulling me down harder onto him.
"Fuck, I've wanted my cock buried in this tight little pussy since I first glassed you on that ridge," he growls, eyes locked on mine, dark and possessive.
"Watched you moving like that, all fire and curves, and all I could think was how I'd bend you over right there in the dirt, spread those legs wide, and slam into you deep and hard, owning every moan until you screamed my name for the whole damn valley to hear. "
His hips buck as I bottom out on his cock.
"Or shove you down to your knees in the grass, gripping your hair to guide your mouth over my cock, making you take me all the way while I tell you how good you look choking on what belongs to me.
Hell, I'd pin you hard against a tree, your palms flat on the bark as I thrust into you from behind, relentless and rough, claiming you so completely that you'd never forget who you belong to, coming undone only when I say so. "
Heat floods my cheeks, but it's not embarrassment—it's arousal, pure and scorching, making me grind down harder on him, my slick walls fluttering at the vivid, commanding images he's painting.
God, he's been thinking about me like that? Filthy, dominant thoughts that match the wild man I glimpsed on that hike?
My thoughts scatter. It turns me on more than I expected, the way his words paint these raw, explicit pictures—me on my knees for him, his hands pinning me down, claiming every part of me. I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders, careful of his bandages, but he doesn't flinch.
Instead, he laughs again, that deep, rumbling sound that makes my walls flutter around him.
"I imagined our first time together as something far more vigorous than you riding me," he says, thrusting up into me with a sharp snap of his hips that hits deep, making stars burst behind my eyelids. "But I like this—watching you take me, your tits bouncing, that pretty face all flushed."
"God, don't stop talking like that," I gasp, my voice breathy and desperate, leaning down to nip at his jaw as I roll my hips in response, chasing the friction.
His words are like fuel to the fire already raging inside me, his filthy mind turning me on in ways I never expected—raw, unfiltered, and so damn possessive.
He grins up at me, that wicked, knowing flash of teeth that makes my pulse stutter, clearly encouraged by my plea, his eyes darkening with fresh heat as he tightens his grip on my ass.
"Been imagining pinning you against a tree, slamming into you from behind, feeling you clench around me while the wind whips around us. Or better yet, tying your hands with my belt, making you beg for every inch."
A soft moan escapes my lips at his words, the imagery searing into my brain—me helpless and wanting, at his mercy under the stars—and I can't help but grind down harder, taking him deeper, my inner walls pulsing around his thick length as slick heat coats us both.
"Yes... like that," I whisper, my voice husky with need, my nails digging into his shoulders as I ride him faster, the confession drawing me in even more, making me ache for the reality of his dominance.