Chapter 13 #2
I don’t give her the choice.
I pump my fingers faster, deep, deliberate strokes while my tongue works relentless circles over her clit. No mercy. No slowing down.
“You don’t get to come until I say,” I tell her, voice rough against her soaked skin. “You hear me? You hold it. You wait for me.”
“Cole, please.”
“No.” I suck her clit hard again, curling my fingers at the same time.
Her thighs start to shake around my head.
“You walked into that building tonight thinking you could handle anything,” I say between licks. “Thought you didn’t need anybody. Thought you could take whatever they threw at you.”
I thrust deeper, grinding the pads of my fingers against that swollen spot inside her. “But look at you now. Spread open on your bed. Dripping for me. Begging. You need this, don’t you? Need me to fuck the recklessness right out of you.”
Her answer is a broken moan, half sob, half plea. Her hips try to chase my mouth. I hold her down harder.
“Say it.”
“I need it,” she gasps. “I need you. Please, Cole, I can’t.”
“You can.” I add a third finger, stretching her wider.
She moans and her walls flutter hard around me.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I groan against her. “Gonna feel so good when I finally get inside you. But first you’re gonna come on my tongue like a good girl. You’re gonna give it to me. All of it.”
I seal my lips around her clit again and suck, rhythmic and relentless, while my fingers drive into her fast and deep.
Her whole body locks up. Back bowing. A choked cry tearing out of her throat as she shatters, pussy pulsing around my fingers, clit throbbing against my tongue.
I don’t stop. I lick her through every shudder, every aftershock, drawing it out until she’s whimpering, oversensitive, weakly trying to push my head away.
Only then do I ease off. Slow kisses against her inner thighs. Soft strokes of my tongue to clean her up while she trembles and pants.
I rise slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Her eyes are glassy. Dazed. Cheeks flushed. Bruise on her face somehow looking softer in the aftermath.
I lean over her, caging her with my arms on either side of her head.
“That was just the start,” I murmur, brushing my lips against hers so she can taste herself on me. “We’re not done yet, trouble. Not even close.”
Her breath catches again, already needy, already ready for whatever comes next.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me want to ruin her all over again.
The room settles into quiet after the storm we just made of each other.
Moonlight cuts through the half-open curtains in pale silver bars, striping the tangled sheets and the curve of Rae’s bare shoulder where it rests against my chest. Her breathing has slowed from ragged gasps to something soft and even, each exhale ghosting warm across my collarbone.
One of her legs is hooked over mine like she’s still afraid I’ll slip away in the dark, and her hand, bruised knuckles and all, lies flat over my heart, fingers spread like she’s claiming the steady thud beneath them.
I should get up. Should check the perimeter, make sure nobody followed us out here, should at least lock the damn front door she never bothers with.
Instead I pull the sheet higher over her back, tucking it around her shoulders even though the night is warm and she’s already flushed from everything we did.
My arm stays banded across her waist, heavy and possessive, keeping her anchored against me.
Every few minutes one of the animals downstairs makes a noise, Hank’s low huff, Moose’s nails clicking across the hardwood, Pickle’s distant, offended little bray, but none of it matters.
Not tonight.
Her hair smells like citrus shampoo and sex and the faint trace of hay that never quite leaves this house.
I bury my nose in it for a second, breathing her in, letting it ground me the way her heartbeat against my ribs grounds me.
The bruise on her cheek is darker now, a vicious shadow under the moonlight, and every time my eyes drift to it the certainty in my gut hardens another degree.
Voss and his men have hours left. Not days. Hours.
I’ve already mapped that warehouse in my head again. Entry points. Exits. Blind spots. The order I’ll move through the room. Clean. Professional. Final.
But that’s tomorrow.
Tonight she’s here. Warm and whole and breathing against me, and that’s enough to shove the kill-plan to the back of my skull for a few hours.
I press my lips to the top of her head, soft and barely there, and feel the last of the tension leave her body.
She makes a sleepy little sound, nuzzles closer, and her fingers curl once against my chest like she’s saying stay.
I stay.
My hand strokes slow circles along her spine, up and down in an absent rhythm that matches her breathing until it slows even more, until the rise and fall of her ribs against mine is the only movement left in the room.
Somewhere downstairs Cricket lets out one last sharp yip and then quiets.
The farmhouse creaks once, settling into itself the way old houses do, and then there’s nothing but the low drone of crickets outside and the soft cadence of Rae sleeping in my arms.
I don’t close my eyes right away.
I watch the moonlight slide across the wall. Count the steady beats of her heart against mine. Memorize the exact weight of her body draped over me like she belongs here.
Because she does.
Eventually my own eyelids grow heavy. The kill-plan is still there, waiting for daylight, for when the sun comes up and I have to leave her sleeping to go finish what needs finishing.
For now I let myself sink.
My arm tightens around her one last time, instinctive and protective.
Then I follow her into sleep.