Chapter 20
Millie
The first thing I’m aware of is the warmth.
A solid, heavy weight pressed against my back, an arm thrown possessively over my waist. Then the insistent, prodding heat of his cock, nestled against the curve of my ass.
Liam. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across my face.
I shift slightly, turning in his embrace so I can see him.
In sleep, he looks different. The hard lines of responsibility and worry that usually carve his face are softened, smoothed away into something almost boyish. His dark lashes are long against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. He’s beautiful. And he’s mine. For now, at least, he’s mine.
But the thought is immediately followed by a cold, slick wave of guilt. I can never tell him about Knox. I can never tell him that I slept with a sheriff, the one person Liam would never forgive me for.
The knowledge sits in my stomach like a stone, a festering secret that taints this perfect, quiet moment. It’s so fucked up of me. So incredibly selfish. And Maddox… He said he wouldn’t tell, but he was so angry. So disappointed. I have to talk to him, make sure he’ll keep my secret.
“You awake,” Liam murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through my chest. His eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, but they focus on me instantly. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face.
“Morning,” I whisper.
He leans in, capturing my lips in a kiss that’s soft and tastes of sleep and him.
It’s a gentle exploration that quickly deepens into something more.
His hand moves from my waist, sliding down to cup my ass, pulling me flush against him.
The hard length of his cock presses against my stomach, a blatant, delicious promise.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks into my neck as he trails kisses down my throat. “Whatever was bothering you yesterday… is it better?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my breath hitching as his teeth scrape against my pulse point. The guilt, the worry about Maddox, it all fades away, pushed into a distant corner by the overwhelming sensations he’s creating. “I’m fine now.”
“Good,” he growls, a possessive sound that makes my toes curl. “How about this? I fuck you. Then I feed Nimbus. Then we fuck a little more before we have to go to work. Sound like a plan?”
I can only nod, a breathy “yes” escaping my lips.
His hand moves from my ass, sliding up my side and wrapping around my throat in a possessive hold, his thumb resting against my pulse point.
He latches on, kissing and licking the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder.
I shudder, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with him.
His other hand slides between my legs, his fingers finding my folds, already slick and ready for him.
He circles my clit, a teasing, maddening touch that makes my hips buck.
He pulls away, a wicked grin on his face. “Turn over,” he commands.
I obey instantly, rolling onto my stomach.
He pulls me up onto my hands and knees and positions himself behind me.
His hands grip my hips, pulling them back toward him.
The head of his cock brushes against my entrance, and I moan, pushing back, desperate for more.
Instead, he spits into his palm, the sound lewd and incredibly hot in the quiet room.
He rubs the saliva, mixing it with my own wetness, making me even slicker.
Then he’s pushing into me. One long, slow, deep stroke that steals the air from my lungs.
I feel bruised and needy, my body still tender from last night, but it’s a good pain, a pleasurable ache.
I’m desperate for more. I need him to move, to fuck me hard and fast, to erase everything else with the sheer force of him.
He starts to move, his pace slow and torturous at first. Each drag of his cock against my inner walls is a delicious friction. I can feel every inch of him, the veins, the flared head. I push back against him, meeting his thrusts, silently begging for more.
He understands. His pace quickens, his hands gripping my hips tighter, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the room, mingling with my ragged moans and his low grunts.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his voice rough with lust. “Take my cock.”
He reaches around, his fingers finding and rubbing my clit again. I can feel my orgasm building, a tight coil in my stomach. I’m so close, so close…
And then it hits me.
An insane wave of nausea that comes out of nowhere. It’s not a gentle queasiness; it’s a violent, overwhelming sickness that roils through my stomach. I gasp, scrambling off him, the pleasure instantly replaced by a desperate need to be sick.
I run, not even bothering to grab a robe, stumbling into the bathroom and falling to my knees in front of the toilet just as my stomach heaves. It’s painful, my body shaking with the force of it.
He follows me, his footsteps quick and concerned. He kneels behind me, gathering my hair back from my face, holding it gently away from the mess. His other hand rubs slow, soothing circles on my back.
“Millie? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice laced with worry.
I can only shake my head, another wave of nausea hitting me. When it’s finally over, I collapse back against him, my body trembling and weak. He’s a solid, warm presence behind me, a wall of strength in the face of my sudden, inexplicable sickness.
“Yeah,” I finally manage to say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. But he doesn’t push. He just helps me up, leading me to the sink and handing me a cool, wet cloth to wipe my face. He takes care of me, his movements gentle and sure, his face etched with a concern that’s so much deeper than just worry about a stomach bug.
And as I look at his reflection in the mirror, at the man who just fucked me and is now patiently cleaning me up after I was sick, my heart does a painful, terrifying lurch. This is so much more complicated than just sex. This is so much more dangerous.
“I need water,” I croak. My throat is scraped raw from the force of my heaving.
“Okay, baby. I’ve got you.” Liam’s already moving, his bare feet silent on the floor. I hear the tap turn on, the sound of water filling a glass.
He’s so calm, so capable. It amazes me how much he does not mind his nakedness, how he can move through my apartment with an easy confidence that’s both comforting and terrifying. He’s taken up space, and my body, my heart, doesn’t seem to know how to process it.
He returns, kneeling beside me and pressing a cool glass into my trembling hand.
I drink greedily, the cold liquid a balm on my raw throat.
I push myself up, using the edge of the sink for support, my body feeling weak and boneless.
I need to see if I have anything for this. Pepto-Bismol. Alka-Seltzer. Anything.
I pull open the little white door of the medicine cabinet, revealing a collection of half-used bottles, expired prescriptions, and a stray tube of antibiotic ointment.
And then I see it. A small, orange prescription bottle.
Heat suppressants. There’s only a pill left.
I make a mental note to get a refill today.
Liam’s voice pulls me from my spiral. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. “I gave Nimbus some water,” he says, his gaze soft and concerned. “But do you think you can walk?”
I manage a weak smile, the gesture feeling fragile on my face. “Yeah. I think I can manage that.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to try. In one smooth, effortless motion, he scoops me into his arms. I loop my arms around his neck, my head resting against his shoulder. He carries me back to the sofa and sits beside me.
He touches my cheek, then my forehead, his palm cool and dry against my skin. “You feel warm, baby,” he says, his brow furrowed with worry. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, barely a whisper. “Just a stomach bug. Probably something I ate.”
I look at him, really look at him. His hair is a mess from sleep and our frantic activities, his eyes are still dark with concern, and his body is a landscape of hard muscle and smooth skin. He nods, seemingly accepting my flimsy excuse.
“I can make us some eggs and tea,” he offers. “Something light.”
I nod, grateful for the offer, for the simple, domestic normalcy of it.
He stands up and walks over to his discarded jeans, pulling on his boxers.
The soft cotton settles low on his hips, and I can’t help but laugh, a short, breathy sound.
He’s still half-hard, a blatant, physical reminder of what we just did, of what’s still simmering between us.
The sound makes him turn, a questioning look on his face. But my mind is already racing, a tumble of thoughts I can’t voice.
I want to ask what this means for us. Are we back to fucking?
Are we more? Is this just a temporary fix, a way to soothe old wounds, or is it something real?
Is he my boyfriend? The questions are a frantic, caged bird in my chest, but I don’t let any of them out.
I can’t. It’s too much, too soon. The secret I’m keeping is too heavy.
The drive to The Cocoa Nook is silent. The rain is still coming down in sheets. He’s focused on the road, his jaw tight, and I’m staring out the passenger window, watching the world blur into a watery mess.
We’re on a stretch of road that’s particularly exposed, the wind whipping the rain across the pavement in blinding sheets. Liam slows down, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “This road is a fucking death trap,” he mutters.
And then it happens. The truck hydroplanes.
For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, we’re weightless, floating on a cushion of water.
The world outside the windows becomes a spinning, nauseating vortex of green and gray.
I let out a sharp cry, my hands flying out to brace myself against the dashboard.
Liam curses as he wrestles with the steering wheel.
The truck fishtails, then slides with a sickening lurch into a ditch on the side of the road.
The engine dies with a final, pathetic cough, leaving us in a sudden, ringing silence, broken only by the sound of the rain drumming on the roof and our own ragged breaths.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice tight as he turns to me, his hands immediately reaching out to check me over.
“I think so,” I say, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m shaking, but I don’t think I’m hurt.
“Fuck,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Just… fuck.”
We sit there for a moment, the reality of our situation sinking in. We’re stuck. In a ditch. In the middle of a storm. My phone is dead, of course. I left it charging on my nightstand.
“We need to call someone,” I say, my voice small.
He pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up his grim face. He stares at it for a long moment, his thumb hovering over the contacts. I know who he wants to call. A tow truck. His mom. Anyone but the one person we probably should.
But then he looks at me, his eyes meeting mine, and a silent understanding passes between us. There’s only one person to call.
He finds the name and presses the phone to his ear. It rings once.
“Maddox,” he says, his voice rough. “Hey, man. We’ve got a problem.”