Chapter 22 - Gabriel #2
The kiss is a continuation of the fight, raw and urgent, neither of us yielding.
Her tongue battles mine for dominance while her hands knot in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.
I grip her waist, lifting her onto the counter in one motion, shoving aside the spice bottles that crash to the floor.
Glass shatters somewhere. Oregano and cumin scatter across the tile, but neither of us cares.
She yanks my shirt over my head while I push her skirt up her thighs, both of us claiming the other with bruising intensity.
Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me against her, and I can feel how wet she is through the thin fabric of her underwear.
The evidence of her arousal despite her anger, or because of it, makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
"Fuck," I growl against her mouth, fumbling with my belt. "I need—"
"Now," she demands, shoving my pants down with her heels. "Stop thinking and just—"
I tear her underwear off, literally tear it, the delicate fabric giving way under my desperate grip. She gasps at the violence of it but doesn't protest, just pulls me closer, nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
When I thrust into her, we're both still furious, her pussy clenching around my cock like she's fighting me even as she takes me deeper.
The counter height puts us at eye level, forcing us to see each other's anger and need reflected back.
She grabs my hair and pulls hard enough to force my head back, then bites my exposed throat. Not playfully. With intent to mark.
I pin her wrists above her head against the cabinet with one hand, but she breaks free immediately, too strong in her fury to be contained.
Her hands scratch down my chest, leaving red trails I'll feel for days.
The pain only feeds the desperate edge of this.
Not making love, not even fucking, but something rawer.
A physical argument neither of us can win.
"Is this what you wanted?" she gasps against my ear, then bites the lobe hard.
I respond by gripping her hips and changing the angle, making her cry out. But she doesn't go passive. She meets each thrust with her own force, grinding against me like she's trying to climb inside my skin or push me out of hers.
The power shifts constantly. One moment I'm in control, setting a punishing pace, the next she's wrapped her legs tighter and is using the leverage to take what she needs.
She bites my shoulder when I hit particularly deep.
I suck a mark into her throat in retaliation.
Neither of us is gentle. Neither of us wants to be.
"Look at me," she demands, grabbing my face with both hands, forcing eye contact. "All of you. Look at me with all of you."
The command breaks something in me. The compartments shatter.
Priest, prince, man, all colliding into this moment.
I'm everything at once: the sinner and the sacred, the controlled and the chaotic, the man who killed a woman and the one who would kill for this one.
It's too much, overwhelming, but Sera holds my gaze steady, taking all of it without flinching.
"There you are," she breathes, and then she's coming, her pussy clenching around me in waves. But her eyes never close, never look away, holding me in place as she falls apart.
The intensity of her gaze, seeing all of me and still letting go, triggers my own release. I come harder than I ever have, vision whiting out at the edges, but I keep my eyes on hers. Watch her watch me lose control completely. No firewalls. No separation. Just brutal, honest connection.
We collapse against each other, her forehead pressed to my shoulder, both of us shaking.
The anger hasn't vanished but transformed into something else.
Exhaustion maybe, or recognition. Slowly, inevitably, we end up on the floor.
Not a graceful descent but a controlled fall, my back against the cabinet, her weight across my chest.
The kitchen tile is cold against my skin.
We're both wrecked. Clothes torn and scattered, breathing like we've run miles.
I can feel the sting of her nail marks across my chest and back.
She'll have bruises on her hips, her wrists, marks of possession that weren't gentle.
The anger has burned away, leaving something clearer but no less raw.
For long minutes, neither of us speaks. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the building, pipes settle with small sounds. The spilled spices perfume the air. Oregano and cumin mixing with sex and sweat.
"I've been so afraid," I finally say, the words rough in my throat. "Of being all of myself at once. Of what happened when I lost control before."
She shifts against my chest but doesn't pull away. "The woman you killed."
Not a question. She knows the shape of it even without the name.
"I thought if I kept everything separate, I could contain the dangerous parts. The hunger. The violence. The things that made me my father's son." My hand finds her hair, stroking through the tangles we created. "But all I did was become him anyway."
"We both did," she says quietly. "I was running Julian's program on you. Manage the threat, maintain distance, never be surprised. Even though you've never…" She trails off, but I know what she means. I've never hurt her. Never controlled her. Never made her smaller.
"We were both fighting ghosts," I say.
She lifts her head to look at me. Her lipstick is gone, lips swollen from our kiss. There's a mark on her throat that will be purple by morning. But her eyes are clear, present, without the careful distance she's been maintaining.
"No more boxes," I say.
"No more parallel tracks," she responds, her voice hoarse.
We stay there for another minute, then slowly begin to register the damage.
Broken glass from at least two spice jars.
Oregano everywhere. In my hair, stuck to her skin, scattered across the floor like green snow.
Her underwear destroyed beyond repair. My shirt somewhere under the stove.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene of passion.
"We should clean up," she says but doesn't move.
"In a minute."
She reaches for a dish towel hanging from the oven handle, uses it to wipe blood from my lip where she bit me. The gesture is tender, careful, completely at odds with how the wound was made.
"I'm sorry I told Logan first," she says. "Not sorry I told him. We needed his resources. But sorry I didn't trust you with it first. I should have—"
"No." I catch her hand. "We both should have done things differently. But we're here now. The investigation is ours. The Friday dinner is our move. We're a unit."
She studies my face. "You can't come Friday. Your face. Everyone knows you're a Delgado."
"I know. You'll go with Logan." The words taste bitter but necessary. "I'll be here, trusting you in the field. That's the test, isn't it? Of this new honesty."
"Can you do that? Trust me with Logan while you stay behind?"
I think about it honestly. The jealousy isn't romantic. I know Logan's interests lie elsewhere. But functional jealousy, that he can move in spaces I can't, that he'll be her operational partner while I wait? That's harder.
"I'll have to," I say simply. "That's what partners do."