Chapter 15 Salem
FIFTEEN
SALEM
I woke up early. My body hummed with need. Need for one sexy, gothic bodyguard. Ozzy.
God, I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him.
Not after the trafficking ring, not after that white van with its blacked-out windows, not after every shadow in this safehouse still makes my pulse spike like I’m being hunted.
I should be curled up in a ball, terrified of every man on the planet.
But my body didn’t get the memo. Last night, falling asleep in Ozzy’s arms, hearing his heart beat through his chest, feeling the heat rolling off that big, solid frame…
I got wetter than I’ve ever been in my life.
Throbbing. Aching. So turned on I had to clench my thighs together and bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
The thought of sliding my hand under his waistband, wrapping my fingers around him while he was still half-asleep, God, it nearly made me come right there.
I couldn’t stay in that bed another minute.
So I slipped out at the first gray hint of dawn, heart racing like I’d been caught stealing, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft creak of old floorboards under my feet.
I pulled on the oversized T-shirt I stole from his drawer—the one that smells like him and hits me mid-thigh—and started the coffee.
The rich, bitter scent blooms as it brews, but it does nothing to calm the slick heat between my legs.
I shift my weight, pressing my thighs together again, and the friction only makes it worse.
By the time the machine gurgles its last drop, I’ve already replayed last night’s almost-touch a hundred times in my head.
The way his voice dropped when he said “You don’t have to apologize.
Not to me.” The way his eyes stayed on mine in the dark, dark enough to drown in.
I’m pouring myself a mug when I hear the bathroom door open down the hall.
Footsteps. Bare feet on hardwood. My stomach flips.
He walks into the kitchen and every coherent thought in my brain short-circuits.
Ozzy’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp and dark, water droplets clinging to the ends and sliding down the strong column of his neck.
One perfect drop traces the line of his collarbone and disappears under the neckline of the thin gray T-shirt that’s molded to every ridge of his chest and abs like it was painted on.
Gray sweats hang low on his hips, the drawstring tied loose, and the soft fabric does absolutely nothing to hide the heavy outline of him.
He’s not even hard—not fully—but Jesus, the size of him is obscene even at rest. My mouth goes dry.
My nipples tighten against the soft cotton of his stolen shirt.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep, and the low timbre vibrates straight between my legs.
“Morning,” I manage, but it comes out breathy. I turn back to the counter fast, pretending to fuss with the sugar I don’t even use, just so I don’t stare. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Every inch of my skin prickles.
He moves behind me to grab a mug, and even though there’s plenty of space, his arm brushes mine.
Bare skin on bare skin. Heat flares up my arm and sinks straight into my core.
I suck in a quiet breath. He smells like the same soap from last night but warmer now, mixed with the clean scent of his skin still damp from the shower.
I want to turn around and bury my face in his chest. I want to lick the water off his neck.
I want things I have no business wanting.
We move around the tiny kitchen like we’re dancing around landmines.
I pull eggs and bacon from the fridge. He reaches over my head for the skillet, his chest brushing my back for half a second.
I nearly drop the carton. He cracks eggs one-handed while I flip the bacon, and every time our hips graze, every time his fingers accidentally touch mine passing the salt, the tension coils tighter.
It’s unbearable. Delicious. I can feel how wet I am, the slickness coating my thighs because I’m not wearing anything under this shirt.
If he knew, if he just reached down right now and slid his hand up under the hem—
“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice casual, but his eyes flick to my mouth when I answer.
“Yeah,” I lie. “You?”
He gives a low hum that sounds like it’s hiding something. “Not really.”
The words hang there, heavy. I wonder if he dreamed the same things I did. If he woke up hard and aching the way I woke up empty and throbbing.
We eat at the small table by the window.
We have scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast slathered in butter.
The food is good, but I barely taste it.
I’m too aware of his knee brushing mine under the table, the way his forearm flexes when he lifts his fork, the small scar on his knuckle that I suddenly want to trace with my tongue.
The sunlight coming through the blinds paints gold stripes across his throat and I want to put my mouth there, suck until I leave a mark.
Halfway through, I can’t take the silence anymore. “You still gonna teach me to throw knives today?”
His eyes lift to mine, dark and intent. A slow smile curves one side of his mouth. “Yeah. After breakfast. Figure you should know how to protect yourself.”
The word protect sends another rush of heat through me. I nod, trying to look normal, but my pulse is hammering so hard I’m sure he can see it in my neck.
We finish eating in charged silence, rinse the dishes side by side at the sink, and then he leads me out back after I get dressed.
The safehouse yard is fenced, private, backed by thick trees that block any view from the road.
The grass is still damp with morning dew.
It’s cool under my bare feet. Ozzy sets up a makeshift target.
It’s an old pallet leaned against a tree stump with concentric circles drawn in black marker.
He sets up a small table holding six throwing knives. They’re matte black and wickedly sharp.
He picks one up, spins it once in his hand like it weighs nothing, and my stomach flips at how effortlessly lethal he looks.
And sexy. I mentioned sexy, right? “First rule,” he says, stepping close behind me.
“Balance. Grip it right and it’ll fly true.
” His voice is low, right by my ear. “Relax your shoulders.”
I try. I really do. But then he moves in closer, his chest brushing my back, one big hand settling on my hip to steady me while the other wraps around my right hand, guiding my fingers around the knife handle.
His palm is warm, callused, huge compared to mine.
The heat of him sinks through my thin tank top like it’s not even there.
“Like this,” he murmurs, adjusting my grip. His breath ghosts over the shell of my ear and I shiver so hard the knife wobbles. “Thumb here. Index finger along the spine. Good girl.”
The praise hits me like a shot of whiskey.
Liquid heat pools low in my belly. I’m breathing too fast. He’s so close I can feel the hard planes of his chest against my shoulder blades, the ridge of his abs brushing my lower back every time he shifts.
And lower—God, I can feel the heavy weight of his cock against the curve of my ass, half-hard already and getting thicker by the second. He’s not even trying to hide it.
“Eyes on the target,” he says, but his voice has gone gravel-rough. “Breathe out when you throw.”
I try to focus. I really do. But every instruction comes with another touch.
His hand slides down my arm to correct my elbow, and his thigh presses between mine to widen my stance as his fingers splay over my stomach to keep my core tight.
Each contact sends sparks straight to my clit.
I’m soaked, aching, my nipples so hard they’re visible through the shirt.
I can feel my pulse beating between my legs in time with his breathing.
I throw the first knife. It hits the pallet sideways and clatters to the grass.
“Again,” he says, and this time when he steps in, he doesn’t bother with space.
His body molds to mine completely. His chest is to my back, his hips to my ass, the thick length of his cock nestled right against me like it belongs there.
He’s fully hard now, huge and hot even through the sweats.
A tiny whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
“Ozzy…” His name comes out shaky. “What about the cameras?” All I can think about is everyone at headquarters watching this show.
“Shh. Focus.” But his hand on my hip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. “We’re not in view of the cameras.”
I exhale a long breath. “Okay.”
He guides my next throw. The knife thunks into the outer ring. “Better.” His lips brush the side of my neck when he speaks. “You’re doing so good for me.”
The praise melts me. My knees go weak. I lean back into him without thinking, grinding my ass against that hard cock just once. He hisses through his teeth, and the sound goes straight to my core. I’m dripping now.
We do three more throws. Each one brings him closer, each correction more intimate. His hand slides under the hem of my shirt, palm flat against my bare stomach, thumb stroking just under my ribs. I’m trembling. The last knife leaves my hand and sinks dead center with a solid thunk.
“Perfect,” he growls against my ear.
I spin in his arms before I can talk myself out of it. The knife lesson is over. The pretense is over. His eyes are black with want, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps. I reach up, fist my hands in his hair, and pull his mouth down to mine.
The kiss is not gentle.
It’s fire. It’s days of restraint snapping in half.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, tongue sliding deep like he’s been dying to taste me.
I moan into him and he swallows the sound, one big hand cupping the back of my head while the other grips my ass and hauls me up against him.
My legs wrap around his waist instinctively.
He’s so hard I can feel every thick inch pressed against me.
The thin fabric between us might as well not exist.
“Fuck, Salem,” he groans against my lips, walking us backward until my back hits the rough bark of a tree. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this.”
His hips roll into me, grinding that massive cock against my clit in slow, filthy circles.
I cry out, head falling back against the tree.
He takes advantage immediately, mouth latching onto my throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
One hand shoves my shirt up, exposing my breasts to the morning air.
His thumb flicks over a nipple, then his mouth is there—hot, wet, teeth grazing—sucking until I’m writhing against him.
“Please,” I gasp, grinding down on him shamelessly. “Ozzy, I need—”
“I know, baby.” His voice is wrecked. He reaches between us, yanks his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slaps heavy and hot against my stomach—thick, veined, the head already glistening. I look down and whimper at the sight. He’s huge. Bigger than I imagined even in my filthiest dreams.
He pushes my shorts and panties down. He notches the head of his dick against my entrance, sliding it through my wetness, coating himself in me. “So fucking wet,” he growls. “All for me?”
“All for you,” I pant. “Please—just—”
He pushes in.
The stretch is perfect, burning, overwhelming. Inch by thick inch he sinks into me, eyes locked on mine, until he bottoms out with a groan that vibrates through both of us. I’m so full I can barely breathe. My walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, trying to take every last bit.
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, forehead pressed to mine. “You feel like heaven. So tight. So fucking perfect.”
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside me.
I cling to his shoulders, nails digging in, moaning with every thrust. The tree bark scrapes my back but I don’t care.
All I feel is him. All I feel is him filling me, stretching me, and fucking me like he’s been starving for it.
His pace picks up, harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet yard.
One hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit and rubbing tight circles.
“Come on, baby,” he rasps against my mouth. “Let me feel you. Come on my cock like a good girl.”
The words tip me over. Pleasure crashes through me so hard my vision whites out.
I cry his name, clenching around him in pulsing waves, soaking his cock, his balls, his thighs.
He fucks me through it, relentless, then buries himself deep and comes with a guttural groan, pulsing hot and endless inside me.
We stay locked together, panting, trembling. His mouth finds mine again, softer this time, lazy and deep. The kiss tastes like salt and relief and the start of something neither of us can stop anymore.
I don’t want to stop.
Not ever.