18. Awakening To Reality
18
AWAKENING TO REALITY
~KAMARI~
A different kind of warmth embraces me as consciousness slowly returns. Not the burning fever that plagued my dreams, but something heavier, more physical.
The weight of what feels like multiple blankets presses against me, making my already overheated skin prickle with discomfort.
"Too hot," I groan, pushing weakly at the heavy covers. My movements feel sluggish, and uncoordinated, like my limbs are moving through honey instead of air.
With considerable effort, I manage to turn onto my side, instinctively curling around a pillow that feels impossibly soft against my cheek.
A scent envelops me that makes my racing thoughts slow, my tense muscles relax.
It's familiar yet new – His scent washes over me with startling clarity, no longer masked by rain or adrenaline.
Rich dark chocolate melts into the sweetness of black cherries, creating a decadent base that makes my mouth water. But there's complexity layered beneath that initial rush of indulgence: crisp mint cuts through the sweetness like a blade, sharp and invigorating, while petrichor – that distinctive scent of rain on warm earth – adds a wild, untamed element that speaks of mountain storms and midnight races.
The combination shouldn't work, but it does, especially with that underlying note of raw sugar that reminds me of breaking into crystallized caramel, and the earthy whisper of crushed autumn leaves that grounds it all.
His aroma is a perfect paradox – sophisticated yet feral, inviting yet dangerous.
It's the scent of someone who could attend a black-tie gala or street race with equal comfort, who exists in that intoxicating space between civilization and wildness.
Every inhale reveals new dimensions: sometimes the chocolate dominates, making me crave a taste; other times the mint and rain surge forward, reminding me of the untamed Alpha beneath his polished exterior. But it's the raw sugar note that truly captures me – sweet enough to complement what I’d assume is my scent which very few state is sweet with a touch of spiced undertones.
Regardless, the aroma keeps inviting three main feelings.
Danger. Excitement. Safety.
Odd combination to ignite just by scents, but the combination melds and works spectacularly. Just like the arms that suddenly snake around my waist, pulling me back against a solid wall of warmth that my body seems to recognize even if my mind hasn't caught up yet.
A small pout forms on my lips as I try to make sense of this situation.
Did I invite someone to the Safe Haven?
It wouldn't be completely unprecedented – I've done it before when the need became too strong to ignore. But those occasions are rare, happening maybe once a year at most.
I've never been comfortable bringing strangers into this space, especially knowing I share it with Astraea.
The Safe Haven is exactly what its name suggests – a sanctuary where Omegas can exist without constant fear or vigilance. Bringing random Alphas here, no matter how carefully vetted, always felt like a violation of that sacred trust.
But this scent...
My thoughts drift lazily as I inhale deeply, letting the aroma wrap around me like a security blanket. There's something about it that calls to my very soul, that makes my Omega instincts purr with recognition and contentment.
The arms around me feel right in a way those previous encounters never did like they belong there.
Sleep starts to reclaim me, my mind floating in that peaceful space between consciousness and dreams. But the heat becomes overwhelming again, making me shift restlessly in the embrace that holds me.
Without opening my eyes, I reach back and press my hand against what I assume is my companion's face, trying to create some distance between us.
"Too hot!" I mutter, giving a half-hearted push. "Go away."
A deep chuckle reverberates through me, the sound rich and familiar in ways that make my heart skip even in my semi-conscious state. Instead of releasing me, the arms tighten, pulling me more firmly against a chest that feels like it was sculpted from marble.
"You always hate when I'm in your personal space when you're half asleep, Trouble."
The words take a moment to penetrate my foggy brain. The voice is deep, carrying notes of both amusement and affection, but it's the nickname that finally breaks through my mental haze.
Trouble.
Only one person has ever called me that.
Sixty seconds tick by as my mind struggles to process this information, to connect the dots between past and present.
The nickname. The scent. The familiar way he holds me, like he's done it a hundred times before.
My eyes snap open, and I find myself staring into an expression I haven't seen in years – that same cocky smirk that used to make my teenage heart race. But the boy who gave me my first taste of freedom has been replaced by something more tempting and more refined.
The same Alpha who set Maharaja on fire.
Who chased me through the forest wearing that haunting mask with its glowing eyes.
Who fought alongside the detective – Ezekiel – to save me from those hunting Alphas who thought I'd be easy prey.
Riot.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, making my breath catch in my throat. But he's not Riot anymore, is he? That was just a nickname from our shared past, a symbol of the chaos we created together during that perfect week of rebellion.
Now he's Rhett "Blaze" Holloway – a name that carries weight in the underground racing scene, that makes hardened criminals check their rearview mirrors at night.
The masked avenger who delivered justice with fire and precision, who turned my ex-husband to be's precious car into his funeral pyre.
Oh fucking god...did he die in the fire? What even happened last night? Wait...I need to recap...but ugh. That makes my head hurt.
My thoughts spiral in a confused whirlwind as I try to piece together the fragments of memory – the crash, the forest, the gunshots. Everything blurs together in a kaleidoscope of violence and rain, making my temples throb with renewed intensity.
The gentle touch of Rhett's hand on my cheek anchors me back to the present moment. Our eyes connect, and suddenly I'm drowning in those artificial emerald depths that haunted my teenage dreams. The color is even more striking up close – like precious stones catching sunlight, transforming his gaze into something almost otherworldly.
Before I realize what I'm doing, my hand rises to cup his cheek, my thumb grazing along his skin just as I did during our last interaction. The gesture feels both familiar and new, loaded with years of unspoken words and buried regrets.
The memory hits me with devastating clarity – my father's men dragging him away while I screamed, knowing in my heart I'd never see him again. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the sight of blood spattering on concrete, the way they treated him like garbage to be disposed of rather than the precious gift he was to me in the short instance of freedom and thrilling wonder.
Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them, hot and heavy with years of guilt. Rhett frowns, his own hand coming up to cup my cheek as he whispers.
"Don't cry. Please don't cry."
But those softened pleas only make the tears fall faster.
"They dragged you away..." My voice cracks on the confession, years of suppressed pain breaking free. "All because of me...I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Riot."
His eyes soften at the old nickname, and before I can say more, he pulls me into his arms. The embrace feels like coming home – safe, warm, and perfect. I bury my face against his chest, letting out all the tears I've held back since that terrible night.
His body remains calm beneath my storm of emotion, with no tension or anger evident in his muscles. But that control only makes me cry harder, knowing he must have endured so much because of my father.
It seems like my past is a plague, infecting anyone who dares get close enough to care.
Everyone I love ends up suffering.
First my mother, forced to watch helplessly as her daughter was groomed for sale. Then my grandmother, whose attempts to protect me resulted in her own isolation. Astraea and Velvet risk everything just by offering me sanctuary, and now Rhett...
His hand strokes my back in soothing patterns, letting me work through the emotion without trying to stop it. He holds me like I'm something precious rather than the burden I know myself to be. His touch is gentle despite the strength I can feel coiled in his frame.
Only when my sobs quiet to occasional hiccups does he speak.
"Are you in pain?"
The question carries layers of meaning, but I focus on the physical aspect, trying to assess my body's condition. A careful shift reveals various aches, but nothing severe except...
"Just my head hurts a bit."
He nods, propping himself up from his side-lying position.
"I'll get you some water and meds for that."
His movements are fluid as he helps me sit up, every action carrying that same careful gentleness that makes my heart ache. The change in position gives me my first real chance to observe the room I've been resting in.
The room unfolds before me like a museum dedicated to speed and sound, each wall telling its own story of passion and achievement.
This has to be Rhett's personal space – the decoration style is too distinctive, too artistically chaotic to belong to anyone else.
Neon-colored posters dominate one section of the wall, featuring musical artists spanning genres and decades. The vibrant artwork seems to pulse with captured energy, each image carefully chosen and positioned to create a visual symphony.
Some names I recognize from that week we shared – bands he'd play while we drove through the city at midnight, songs that became the soundtrack to our brief rebellion.
But it's the racing posters that truly capture my attention.
They cover another wall entirely, each one showcasing different vehicles caught in moments of perfect motion. The photography is stunning – cars captured mid-drift, their bodies gleaming under stadium lights, tire smoke creating ethereal halos around their forms.
Some appear to be professional shots from major races, while others have a grittier feel, like they were taken at underground events where speed matters more than safety.
My breath catches as I notice the framed uniforms displayed between the posters. Each one rests behind signed glass, the signatures belonging to legends in the racing world.
These aren't mere replicas or fan merchandise – the wear patterns and subtle details speak of actual use, of bodies pushed to their limits inside these suits while chasing victory.
A collection of Formula 1 memorabilia draws my eye next, but these pieces are different from what you'd find in a typical fan's collection.
Everything appears to be one-of-one items: prototype designs, limited edition releases, pieces that would make collectors weep with envy. Each item is displayed with museum-quality precision, telling the story of someone who lives and breathes racing culture at its highest level.
Then I see the medals.
They cover an entire pinboard first; marathon achievements that span years of dedication. Each medallion represents miles conquered, finish lines crossed, limits pushed and broken. The sheer volume speaks of someone who understands that greatness isn't achieved in single moments but built through countless hours of relentless effort.
But it's the racing medals that truly steal my breath.
They dominate an entire wall, mounted in chronological order that lets me trace his journey from amateur competitions to professional victories. Each frame contains not just the medal, but supporting documentation – race stats, timesheets, and photographs capturing the moment of triumph.
Some include newspaper clippings, headlines announcing new records set or championships claimed.
I lose myself in studying each achievement, pride swelling in my chest until it threatens to overflow.
Despite everything my father's men did to him, despite all the fear and pain they tried to instill, Rhett didn't just survive – he thrived. Every medal, every trophy, every framed moment of victory stands as a testament to his refusal to be broken.
The emotion hits me harder than I expected.
Here, displayed before me, is proof that trauma doesn't have to define you.
That the darkness others try to impose can be transformed into fuel for something greater. Each achievement on these walls represents a step away from that night of violence, a choice to keep pushing forward despite the scars.
I'm so absorbed in taking it all in, in processing the magnitude of what he's accomplished, that I don't immediately notice Rhett's return.
My eyes scan the glass frame of his most recent victory – a championship win that made headlines across multiple racing circuits. It makes me intrigued by how life can be. While I was running from the expectations of my family who seemed to set me up for failure, Rhett was outshining all those obstacles and barriers that wished to slow him down in any way.
While I was running from my cage, he was breaking records and claiming victories. While I hid in the Safe Haven, he was building a legacy that would make any parent proud. The contrast should make me feel smaller and should highlight how little I've achieved in comparison.
But instead, it fills me with hope.
Because if Rhett could overcome what my father did to him, could transform that pain into triumph, maybe I'm not as cursed as I thought. That the darkness that follows me doesn't have to destroy everyone it touches.
My eyes drift over the collection again, seeing not just the achievements but the story they tell. It's a narrative of someone who refused to stay down, who took every obstacle and turned it into a stepping stone. Someone who didn't let other people's cruelty define their path.
These aren't just decorations or markers of success – they're proof that survival can be beautiful. That trauma can be transformed into triumph, fear into fuel, pain into purpose. Every medal, every frame, every carefully preserved moment stands as a testament to the strength I always knew he possessed.
The strength I felt that very first night, when he looked at me like I was worth protecting rather than possessing.
The touch on my chin startles me from my contemplation, firm fingers tilting my face upward.
Before I can process the movement, Rhett's lips press against mine with decisive purpose. The surprise of the contact makes me gasp, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to share the water he holds in his mouth – water that carries the slightly bitter taste of medication.
The method of delivery is so unexpected, so intimate, that I find myself responding instinctively.
His mouth guides mine with practiced patience, ensuring I swallow every drop before the kiss transforms into something softer, sweeter. His lips move against mine with careful deliberation, as if he's relearning territory he once knew by heart.
That dark chocolate and black cherry scent envelops me completely, making my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with my injuries.
The mint undertone seems sharper now, more pronounced with our proximity, while that raw sugar note makes me want to chase the taste of him beneath the lingering medicine.
When he finally pulls back, it's just enough to study my expression. Those emerald eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch, looking for something I can't quite name. His thumb strokes along my jawline, the touch sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with temperature.
"Figured if I didn't get you to take your meds, you'd get lost in your thoughts for all eternity." His voice carries that same richness I remember, but there's something new in it now – a depth of understanding that comes only from experiencing both beauty and pain.
He makes the concept of eternal contemplation sound like a dream worth having, an escape into wonder rather than a retreat from reality.
A small smirk tugs at my lips as I meet his gaze. The medication must be extraordinarily fast-acting, because my headache has already begun to recede, replaced by a pleasant warmth that spreads through my entire body.
Or maybe that's just his proximity, the heat that radiates from him like a banked fire waiting to ignite.
"Can we do that again?" The words slip out before I can overthink them, carrying all the hope and desire I've suppressed for years.
His answering grin is pure sin – that perfect mixture of boyish charm and predatory intent that I remember from our shared past.
With deliberate slowness, he sets the water glass on the nightstand, the movement drawing my attention to the corded muscles in his arm, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.
Then his hand is back on my face, tilting my chin up as he claims my mouth once more. This kiss holds nothing of medication or practicality – it's pure passion, unleashed with devastating precision. His lips move against mine like he's composing a symphony, each touch building on the last until I'm drowning in sensation.
My core clenches with need as his tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I eagerly grant. The taste of him floods my senses – dark chocolate and mint dancing on my tongue as he deepens the kiss with expert skill. His other hand slides into my hair, fingers tangling in the strands to hold me exactly where he wants me.
This isn't the rushed passion of our teenage encounters, driven by the knowledge that we had limited time. We don’t need to rush in the slightest. The world’s problems and chaos can wait.
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world to take me apart, like bringing me pleasure is a goal worth savoring rather than rushing toward.
The moan that escapes me seems to encourage him further. His grip tightens slightly in my hair, the slight sting only adding to the growing heat between my thighs. Each stroke of his tongue against mine sends fresh waves of arousal through my system, making my body sing with recognition and need.
That raw sugar note in his scent grows stronger, mixing with my own growing arousal to create something new and intoxicating. The combination makes my head spin in the best possible way, every inhale drawing his essence deeper into my lungs until I feel marked by it.
His kiss remains controlled but thorough, designed to make my toes curl and my core flood with slick. Each movement feels calculated to draw responses from me, to map out exactly what makes me gasp and whimper.
The precision of it all speaks to years of experience, but there's something else beneath the expertise – a hunger that matches my own, a need that transcends mere physical attraction.
This is recognition on the deepest level.
My Omega instincts purr with satisfaction, acknowledging what my conscious mind has tried to deny – that this connection between us was always meant to be more than a teenage rebellion.
That perhaps fate itself orchestrated our reunion, bringing us back together when we've both grown strong enough to claim what we truly want.
The kiss continues to build, each press of his lips, each stroke of his tongue driving me higher into a spiral of pure sensation. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness, every nerve ending lighting up like he's flipped some hidden switch inside me.
The heat between my legs becomes almost unbearable, slick gathering as my core clenches around nothing.
This is what kissing should feel like.
The thought floats through my pleasure-hazed mind with perfect clarity. Not the mechanical exchanges of arranged meetings, not the awkward fumbling of casual encounters. This – this perfect storm of passion and precision, of hunger and control, of past and present merging into something entirely new.
This is what romance novels try to capture but can never quite convey – the way a single kiss can rewrite your understanding of pleasure: can make everything that came before feel like pale imitation. The way your body can recognize its perfect match even before your mind catches up, how instinct can override logic until nothing exists except sensation and need.
His answering growl vibrates through me, the sound pure Alpha satisfaction as he reads my responses like a familiar book.
Every gasp, every shiver, every subtle shift of my body toward his – he catalogs it all, using the information to drive me further into this spiral of growing pleasure.
Time seems to slow as Rhett's hands trace reverent patterns along my skin, each touch carrying years of unspoken longing. His lips trail down my neck with deliberate care, pressing gentle kisses that speak of devotion rather than mere desire.
The tenderness in his touch brings tears to my eyes – how different from the forceful claiming I'd been raised to expect.
His emerald eyes meet mine frequently, checking for consent with each progression of intimacy. The care he takes makes my heart ache, remembering how even as teenagers, he always ensured I felt safe and respected. That consideration has only deepened with time, refined by experience into something that makes my soul sing with recognition.
"You're still so beautiful," he whispers against my skin, the words carrying wonder rather than possession.
The complement brings heat to my cheeks, but I don't look away.
Instead, I let my fingers trace the planes of his face, memorizing the ways time has refined his features. The boy I knew has grown into someone magnificent – strong yet gentle, powerful yet controlled.
When our clothes begin to feel like barriers, the removal of each piece becomes almost ceremonial. Every newly revealed patch of skin is welcomed with reverent touches and soft kisses.
There's no rush, no desperate grabbing – just careful exploration and mutual appreciation.
His scent wraps around me like a cocoon, that intoxicating blend of dark chocolate and black cherry growing richer with his rising desire.
The mint undertone keeps me alert to every sensation, while that raw sugar note makes me feel drunk on pure feeling. Combined with my own responding aroma, we create something new and beautiful – a perfect harmony of complementary notes.
We take our time rediscovering each other, making up for years of separation with thorough dedication. Every sigh, every shiver, every whispered endearment adds another layer to this reconnection.
When we finally find ourselves beneath his sheets, skin against skin, the moment feels sacred rather than rushed.
I should stop this.
The doubt and fear settles in as I worry falling into his tempting touch is going to force him to face consequences again. It’s stupid to think that way when things have changed. We’re no longer kids, innocent and trying to run from the madness of our lives for just a few days, but now more is at risk, while our lives can race in a coaster of highs and threatening circumstances.
The truth could linger in my face and I still wouldn’t be able to push him away. I’d rather pretend this is a fever-induced dream where I can surrender to the Alpha I never stopped craving.
“Kamari.”
My name leaves his lips in a groan, his forehead pressed against mine as he braces himself, his hand framing my left cheek with an aching kind of reverence, while I hear the belt buckle come undone of his pants. That’s the only barrier left between us. Those pants that hide that thick long length of his that my pussy is aching to be filled with.
His breath is heavy, ragged, a stark contrast to the way he tries to hold himself back, his self-control barely holding by a thread.
"You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this," he murmurs, his voice like gravel and heat, thick with the desire that pulses between us. "To find you again. To finally make it known I still exist in this forbidden world.”
My Omega instincts rise to the surface, clawing at me, demanding I let him take what was always meant to be his. I arch beneath him, my body already desperate, my slick betraying every unspoken word.
"Why didn’t you show yourself earlier" I whisper, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, needing to drown in this moment.
“Because power talks,” he declares like he’s revealing a forbidden word that only few get to grasp with their own ears. “And bullshit listens. I had to ensure when I returned, I could do what I wanted and not fear the consequences.”
Without consequences…
The groan that leaves him is primal, his lips crashing against mine as if he’s been starved for this — starved for me. His hands explore my body with a possessiveness that makes my toes curl, mapping out every inch of skin, relearning me, branding me as his.
"Fuck, Kamari," he growls as he trails open-mouthed kisses down my throat, his tongue teasing the sensitive spot where my pulse races. He nips at it, not quite biting, but the promise is there, hanging between us like an unsaid vow. “Damon said I shouldn’t do anything…that the damn doctor said we should let you rest.”
Rest?
How am I supposed to rest when my body feels like it’s on fire all over again? Prickles of lust blended with impatience deems it impossible to calm from this arousal until given the opportunity to ease it with what we know to do best between Alpha and Omega.
I shudder beneath him, my body arching into his touch.
"Please," I pant, not even sure what I’m begging for—only that I need him, need more, need everything.
That I just want to get lost in him before we have to face the music of these lingering consequences.
He groans, his grip tightening on my hips.
"Say it again," he rasps. "Let me hear you."
I whimper, heat pooling low in my belly, the sound raw and needy.
“Please, Rhett?” I plead. “My Riot, pretty please?”
His forehead drops against my shoulder, his breath ragged against my skin. I hear the belt buckle hit the floor, the zip of his pants an audible sound that ignites shuffling and a groan of relief. I can already envision his thick veiny cock out and ready to slide into me, but I get to enjoy seeing it for myself when he forces himself to lean back onto his knees, giving me the opportunity to observe his leaky shaft as he strokes it.
I can’t help but gawk at the sight, completely entranced by how hard he is so fast.
"You have no fucking idea how much I’ve missed you," he confesses, his voice thick with emotion. "How many times I imagined hearing you moan my name again, how many nights I spent wanting this."
I can tell he means it, and it makes my heart swell to think our week fling way back then seemed to mean something to him all these years later still. We were kids, sure, but the sizzling connection of a high had been so strong and vibrant.
Some would think it was just the hormones, but I’m coming to realize that it’s just us. Ours is an unexplainable charge of lust, desire, and endless chase for euphoria. I’m completely okay with having such a vibrant connection rekindle.
The confession sends a fresh wave of desire through me. I swallow and try not to be nervous with what unravels in my mind as I lay further back on the bed, spreading my legs wide so he can see my glistening pussy that’s more than ready to be pounded by his length.
"Then what are you waiting for, Rhett?" I practically purr the question, the seductive sound even surprising to me but I’m too high on this pulsing need for him to even feel embarrassed. “Take what you’ve been waiting for.”
A growl rumbles through his chest, his entire body vibrating as he creeps forward on his knees and doesn’t hesitate to rub his cock along my folds, gathering my slick that glistens all over his thick shaft that’s swelling with vibrant need. "I fought for this," he mutters, as if he needs to ensure I know the stakes he took for us to finally have this moment. "For you. To begin this triad of chaos that will come. I don’t have an ounce of regret.”
I don’t think he realizes how fucking hot it is for him to admit that.
To grasp that your Alpha will kill for you.
I swallow hard, gripping the sheets knowing he’s going to make this hard and fast. Rough the way I dare admit I like…but the idea of such swift pleasure has only ever been a comfortable after thought when I remembered that tender first night with him.
Knowing a man can be gentle with you and rough the next can open a level of trust to explore avenues very few Alphas would be privileged to explore with her.
"Then don’t waste it," I challenge with the silent invitation that proves I’m down for whatever he wishes.
His control snaps entirely.
He slides in without a wasted second, his lips crashing against mine not a second later. We groan in relief, his hands laying on top of mine, gripping mine and the sheets beneath my touch while he sinks as deeply as he can.
"Mine," he breathes against my lips with fierce command, I whole heartedly believe that I’ve always truly been his.
That deep down, I assumed I just wouldn’t return to his side until the afterlife.
My body responds to the possessiveness in his tone, my Omega instincts purring in satisfaction.
“Yours,” I agree before he’s fervently kissing me.
Rhett doesn’t give me a second to adjust.
His cock drags against my swollen, sensitive walls, every thick inch stretching me wider than I remember.
My breath catches as he pulls back almost completely before slamming in again, setting a rhythm that’s merciless, punishing, perfect .
The bed protests beneath us, the wooden frame creaking with each thrust.
My nails rake down his back, desperate for something to hold onto, but Rhett is relentless. His body commands mine, his hands gripping my hips in a bruising grip as he fucks me deeper, harder, without hesitation.
Each time he bottoms out, I cry out, my moans swallowed by his demanding lips as he devours every sound I make.
"You sound so fucking good," he rasps against my mouth, his voice raw. His breath fans over my cheek, warm and uneven. "Missed these little moans, Trouble. Always knew you’d sound even better screaming my name."
I can’t even think to respond.
The pleasure is too overwhelming, too sharp, too much. My body tightens around him instinctively, and he groans, his fingers flexing against my hips, dragging me harder onto his cock.
"Fuck, just like that," he hisses. "Taking me so damn well."
My thighs tremble around his waist, my entire body thrumming as the pleasure mounts, as I drown in the ecstasy of being completely and utterly his.
The pressure in my belly coils tighter, threatening to snap at any second.
Rhett must feel it too, because his pace grows wilder, his thrusts rough and uncontrolled. His lips find my throat, his teeth scraping, biting, marking.
"So close," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, my body arching into him as I teeter on the edge. "Rhett—fuck, I’m?—"
"I got you," he growls, his thumb pressing against my swollen clit, circling it in sync with his thrusts. "Come for me, Kamari. Come undone for your Alpha, hmm?"
The command unravels me.
My body shatters, my release slamming into me with a force that leaves me breathless. I cry out his name, my walls clenching around him in rhythmic spasms, milking his cock as the pleasure consumes me.
Rhett curses, his body tensing, his thrusts growing erratic. He pulls out at the last second, his cock pulsing against my stomach as hot ropes of cum spill onto my skin. His breath is ragged, his hands trembling as he grips my thighs, holding himself upright.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of our heavy breathing, the faint creak of the mattress as his weight settles over me. Then, just as I think we’re done, I feel his hands on my waist, flipping me onto my stomach.
I barely have time to react before he’s straddling my thighs, his cock, still rock hard, dragging along the curve of my ass. His grip tightens as he spreads me open, his breath coming fast and heavy.
"Fuck, I need more," he mutters, his voice thick with lust. "Need to be inside you again. Need it rough and fast."
I giggle into the sheets, still dazed from my orgasm.
"That makes me far too needy and impatient to think about the doctor’s orders."
His answering growl vibrates against my skin.
"I don’t give a flying fuck about the doctor," he mutters, his teeth grazing my shoulder. "But getting scolded by Damon or Ezekiel? That’s a battle I’ll worry about after I fuck you senseless."
A shiver runs through me at his words, anticipation curling in my belly.
"Then hurry up, Riot. Because I don’t think I can wait that long."
His only response is another deep, satisfied growl before he grips my hips and thrusts back inside me, dragging me into another reckless, punishing rhythm, the sound of our pleasure echoing through the room, drowning out everything else.
And I let it.
I let myself get lost in him…us.