Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
FALLON
As soon as we step foot in the house, he's throwing me over his shoulder.
I yelp, hands bracing against the hard planes of his lower back. "Kade! What are you doing?"
"Carrying you. What's it look like?" His voice rumbles through his chest, the vibration traveling through my stomach pressed against him.
"I know that, but why?"
"Because I want to."
Simple. Final. The way Kade answers everything.
He jogs up the stairs with me like I weigh nothing, and god, I feel his back muscles working beneath my palms, shifting and flexing with each step.
The strength in him is effortless, casual, the kind of physical power that should frighten me but instead makes me feel safe.
Protected. The view of his ass from this angle is obscene—denim pulled tight over muscle, his body moving with easy strength that speaks to hours working on bikes, hauling engines, living a physical life I can barely comprehend.
Why am I so horny? I'm never horny on my period. Usually I'm miserable, curled up with heating pads and painkillers and zero interest in anything except surviving until it's over. But right now, bouncing against his shoulder, watching his body move, I'm aching with want.
He goes straight through his room to the bathroom and sits me on the counter, and then he's kissing me and I'm melting into him.
My hands tangle in his hair—still damp with sweat, rough beneath my fingers—and his grip on my hips is firm, possessive, like he needs to hold me in place or I might disappear.
He pulls my shirt over my head, the fabric catching on my arms before coming free.
Then his follows, muscles rippling as he drags it off and tosses it aside.
Fuck. His abs.
My mouth waters looking at them, the defined lines and planes of muscle, skin slick with sweat and still streaked with grease from the garage.
I run my fingers over them, tracing the ridges, the valleys, feeling the heat of him beneath my palms. Then reality crashes back—I can't do this.
He wasn't serious about period sex, was he? That was just talk, right?
"Kade," I whisper as he kisses down my neck, lips hot against my pulse point, teeth grazing skin I didn't know was so sensitive.
"Yeah." The word vibrates against my throat.
"We can't—I can't—" The words stutter out breathless and uncertain, caught between want and worry.
He sucks my earlobe, teeth grazing sensitive skin, then whispers directly into my ear, his breath making me shiver. "We can."
Then his hands are at my waist, fingers working the button of my pants, and he's tugging.
I lift my ass to help him, suddenly beyond caring about should or shouldn't, about what's appropriate or normal.
He takes my panties with them, stripping everything away in one efficient movement and dropping both to the floor.
I'm left in nothing but my bra, and I don't want to bleed on anything.
Does he know I'm wearing a tampon? Should I tell him?
Should I warn him? My mind races through a dozen worries as he unfastens my bra with practiced ease and drops it to the floor too.
Then he's sucking my nipple into his mouth and every worry evaporates like steam as I arch into him.
God, it feels so good.
"Mine," he growls against my breast, then bites down.
"Fuck, Kade—" The moan tears from my throat, ragged and desperate.
He switches to my other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak before biting until pleasure and pain blur together and I'm grinding against nothing, desperate for friction, for pressure, for anything.
He pulls back, dark eyes meeting mine while he presses his thumb to my clit.
"Oh god—"
He presses harder, rubbing slow circles that make my thighs shake, make my breath catch in my chest.
I lean my shoulders against the mirror—the glass cool against my overheated skin—and watch him working my clit while he watches me, his hungry eyes tracking every reaction, every hitch in my breathing, every involuntary movement of my hips.
There's something intensely intimate about the eye contact, about being seen so completely.
He moves his fingers lower and I tense up, suddenly hyperaware of what he's about to do.
"Relax, Peaches."
Then he's pulling my tampon out. I look him in the eyes as he does it, watching for disgust or hesitation, for any sign that he's regretting this, but there's only focus and want.
Raw, undisguised desire. He tosses it into the trash without breaking eye contact, without flinching, without making me feel ashamed.
The next thing I feel is his fingers sliding into me, and I should be mortified but I can't be because it feels too good.
I grind into his hand shamelessly, chasing the pleasure, desperate and unashamed.
The wetness is loud—me mixed with blood, obscene and visceral as he pumps his fingers into me hard.
The sound should embarrass me but it doesn't. Nothing matters except the way he's touching me, the way he's looking at me like I'm everything.
"Kade—" His name breaks on a moan.
"What do you want, Peaches?" He pumps faster, harder, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
"Will you fuck me? Please—" The begging comes easy, natural, necessary. I'm past pride, past worry, past everything except need.
"Fuck, I'm dying to."
He removes his fingers and I look down. Blood streaks my inner thighs, coating his fingers as he works his pants open.
His cock springs free between us, hard and thick, and he strokes it with his bloody hand, coating himself in me before lining up at my entrance.
The visual should disgust me but instead it's the hottest thing I've ever seen—him marking himself with my blood like it's something sacred.
I dig my heels into his ass, pulling him into me deep in one rough thrust.
He lets out a guttural groan, the sound raw and primal—animal.
One hand palms my breast, thumb rubbing over my nipple, while the other grips my hip, holding me in place as he starts pounding into me.
The mirror shakes against the wall with each thrust, the counter hard beneath me, his body relentless above me.
There's nothing gentle about this, nothing careful. Just raw need and claiming.
"God—you feel so good—"
The moan tears from my throat—raw, desperate, completely unbidden.
My nails dig into his arm, leaving marks that might bruise by morning.
I can feel myself marking him the way he's marked me, claiming him with small violence that feels perfectly right in this moment.
The sensitivity is overwhelming, almost unbearable—every nerve ending in my body is electrified, heightened beyond anything I've experienced before.
I can't believe I almost didn't do this.
Can't believe I was going to let embarrassment rob me of this perfect feeling, this connection.
God, it feels so good. Better than good.
It feels like everything I've been denied for years.
The room fills with our sounds—my moans mixing with his grunts, skin slapping against skin in an obscene rhythm that bounces off the bathroom tiles.
The mirror shudders against the wall with each thrust, a steady percussion keeping time with the way he's claiming me.
I hear the wet sounds of him pounding into me, can hear how desperate my body is for this, and instead of mortifying me it makes me hotter.
"God, you're fucking perfect."
The words break something open in my chest. I'm not perfect. I'm bloody and broken and completely fucked up, but the way he says it—like he means it, like he believes it—makes me feel like maybe I could be. For him. In this moment.
Then he's fucking me harder, changing the angle of his hips, hitting that perfect spot deep inside that makes my vision go white.
Each thrust drives deeper, claims more, takes everything I have to give and demands more.
The counter bruises my ass, his fingers bruise my hip, and I welcome every mark because they mean I'm here. They mean I'm alive. They mean I'm his.
"God—yes—don't stop—"
He doesn't. Just fucks me harder, faster, more relentless with each passing second.
His rhythm becomes punishing, desperate, like he's trying to fuck his way inside my soul.
My body tightens around him, every muscle tensing, building toward something massive and terrifying and perfect.
I'm coming apart beneath him, screaming his name—actually screaming it, not caring who hears, not caring about anything except this feeling.
My body shatters into a thousand pieces and somehow he's holding them all together, his hands on my skin the only thing keeping me from flying apart completely.
"Fuck, Peaches. I love watching you come on my cock."
The words send another aftershock through me.
I'm still pulsing around him, still trembling, when he scoops me up.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he lifts me—still buried inside me, still hard as steel.
My body protests the movement and celebrates it simultaneously, oversensitive and wanting more at the same time.
He carries me across the bathroom, each step driving him deeper, making me whimper against his shoulder.
My nails find purchase in his back, probably leaving more marks I should feel guilty about but don't. He reaches into the shower with one hand while holding me up with the other—the casual display of strength shouldn't be so hot but it is—and turns on the water.