Chapter 9 Nitro #2
Her hand moved up, found my shoulder, and then her fingers dug into the seam of my jacket like she was trying to hold on during a crash.
I let her, because it felt right, and because there was nothing else in the world that made sense just then.
I slid my arm around her, slow, not wanting to startle.
Her whole body stiffened, then relaxed into the shape of me.
We stayed like that, breathing. The air in the house was thin and mineral, and her hair smelled faintly of burned solder and pine. She shifted again, the arc of her movement deliberate. Her face turned up to mine, and the moonlight caught the edge of her glasses, a cold gleam.
She squinted, trying to focus. “I can’t see you,” she said, almost shy.
“Want me to fix that?” I asked, and she nodded.
I reached up, careful, and slid her glasses off.
The frames clicked as I folded them, the sound sharp and small in the dark.
Her eyes, unshielded, were something else—large, dark, rimmed with circles that spoke of sleeplessness and too many hours at the screen.
She blinked, uncertain, and I found myself grinning.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, low and rough.
She made a sound I’d never heard before—a tiny, uncertain whimper, like a modem catching sync. Her hand tightened in my shirt, and the next thing I knew, her lips were on mine.
It was awkward at first—she led with too much teeth, not enough strategy, but she corrected fast. I let her push and then pulled back, letting her find the rhythm.
She tasted like cheap vodka and anxiety, and I couldn’t get enough.
My hand found her jaw, fingers tracing the line of her neck, and her whole body shivered.
She gasped when I broke the kiss. “Sorry,” she blurted, but her eyes said she wasn’t.
I shook my head. “Don’t be.”
She smiled, barely, then kissed me again, slower this time. I matched her pace, and for a second, the world was only breath and contact and the low pulse of hunger building under my skin.
Her hands moved up, then down, fingers exploring my arms, my chest, like she was running a diagnostic. She stopped at the buttons on my shirt, hesitated, then started to undo them, one by one, her hands shaking. I let her.
When she reached the last button, her hands hovered over my skin, as if afraid of what she might find. I caught her wrists, gentle, and brought them to my chest.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not a bomb.”
She laughed, and the tension drained. She laid her palm flat, fingers splaying over my heart, and left it there.
My own hand drifted to her side, then up, tracing the curve of her ribs. She arched into me, her breath catching. I remembered the directions from the last scene—her pulse, her breath, the way her body betrayed every uncertainty. I loved it. It was honest.
I took her face in my hands and kissed her slow and deliberate, lips, then jaw, then the hollow beneath her ear. She moaned, soft but desperate, and her nails dug into my shoulders.
I let myself want, just for a second.
She pulled back, eyes wide, searching my face for something.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
I nodded, because words weren’t enough.
She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me in, and this time, there was nothing tentative about it.
Her body pressed to mine, all warmth and nerves and hunger. I let my hands roam, careful, but greedy. She clung to me, as if letting go would send her out into orbit.
When we finally broke for air, she laughed—a real one, bright and jagged and alive.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, and I believed her.
“Neither do I,” I said, though it wasn’t true.
We sat in the dark, kissing, touching, learning the shape of each other’s uncertainty.
Outside, the wind battered the house, but inside, the danger was entirely of our own making.
For the first time, I wanted to let my guard down.
The way she looked at me after the second or third kiss was enough to make me forget, for a half-breath, that there was a world outside the window. Her lips were red and raw, her pupils huge, swallowing the brown. She clung to me like a woman afraid of the drop, but not of the landing.
She wanted more, but didn’t know how to ask. I knew the look, had worn it myself, once. I reached for her hand, the left, and brought it to my chest, holding it there with both of mine. Her skin was so thin I could feel the tremor in her pulse.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she said
I smiled, a real one, and kissed her palm, then her wrist, then the inside of her elbow, where the scar lived. She shivered, not from cold. “You’re doing fine,” I said, and slid my hand up the back of her neck, threading fingers through her hair.
She let out a sound—a broken syllable, equal parts relief and surprise.
I wanted to take it slow, but the need was a chemical thing, older than either of us.
I unzipped her hoodie, careful not to catch the fabric, and watched her tense, then let the air out of her lungs.
Her T-shirt was black, faded, one of the band logos I’d seen in her file.
I pulled it up just enough to find her ribs, my hand spanning the space between.
She gasped, like it was an experiment gone wrong, but didn’t stop me. I watched her face the whole time—every flicker, every recalibration. When my fingers brushed the undercurve of her breast, she caught my hand, held it there.
“I’ve always been too focused on work,” she said, words leaking out in a rush. “Never made time for this. I’m not… I’m not practiced.”
I almost laughed, not at her but at the idea that the world had tried so hard to crush the softness out of both of us and failed. “I’ve got you,” I said.
She smiled, nervous but wanting. “You’ll help me figure it out?”
I nodded. “That’s the plan.”
I leaned in, let my mouth find hers again, slow and deliberate.
She moaned, and the sound went straight to the core of me.
I slid my hand up, palmed her breast through the thin cotton, thumb circling until she arched into me.
Her hands moved to my shoulders, nails scraping, then digging in when I traced her nipple with the pad of my thumb.
She broke the kiss, eyes wild. “That’s… It’s a lot.”
“Want me to stop?”
“God, no,” she said, and her hands found my chest, urgent now. She tried to pull my shirt off, but her hands shook. I let her, helping when she got stuck on the sleeves, then tossed it to the floor.
She stared at the ink and the scars—burns, cuts, the shrapnel I’d never bothered to get removed. She reached out, traced a long, puckered line with her finger, slow and reverent.
“This hurt?” she asked.
“Used to,” I said. “Not now.”
She leaned in and kissed it, so gentle I barely felt it. Then she kissed up, to my collarbone, then my neck, her breath hot and uneven. I let her take the lead, let her learn the shape of me.
She pulled off her hoodie, and I helped her with the T-shirt, leaving her in a plain black bra that made her look even more vulnerable.
Her ribs showed, and there were more scars—needle marks, surgery maybe, or accidents.
I wanted to ask, but she was already kissing me again, pushing me back into the couch.
She straddled my lap, and I felt the heat of her even through my jeans. I slid my hands up her sides, feeling her shudder, then unclipped the bra with one hand. She laughed, surprised, as it fell away.
“You did that fast.”
“Old habit,” I said, and she laughed again, burying her face in my neck. I was struggling to go slow, not to bend her over the couch and take her to a place she would never forget.
Her breasts were small, perfect, the nipples dark and already tight.
I ran my tongue across one, then sucked it between my lips, and she gasped so loud I thought she’d startle herself.
She ground her hips against me, all nerves and hunger, and I could feel her getting wetter through the fabric of her leggings.
She bucked when I pinched her nipple, then caught my face in her hands and pulled me up for a kiss so desperate it felt like a plea. Her tongue was clumsy but hungry, and I let her take what she wanted.
She moved her hands down, fumbling with my belt. I stopped her, slow, then knelt between her legs and peeled down the waistband of her leggings, one inch at a time.
She squirmed, nervous, then said, “I’m not sure I’m any good at this.”
I grinned. “You will be.”
She lay back, breathing hard, legs parted and trembling. I kissed my way down her stomach, stopping at her hip bone, then nuzzled the inside of her thigh. Her smell was raw, electric, sweat and skin and need. I pulled down the leggings, then her panties, leaving her open and shaking.
I looked up. “You okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes were glassy. “Just… don’t stop.”
I spread her knees and let my tongue find her, slow at first, then faster when she started to move. She tasted sharp, tangy, not sweet, but I loved it. Her hand found the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, and when I slipped a finger inside her, she bucked, almost off the couch.
She came fast, a full-body spasm, legs squeezing my head like she wanted to crush it. She cried out, then bit her own wrist to muffle the sound. When it ended, she lay back, dazed, staring at the ceiling like she’d just solved a new law of physics. The couch would have to be cleaned… later.
I crawled up, kissed her, let her taste herself on her lips. She smiled, giddy, then tackled me with arms and legs, rolling us over so I was pinned beneath her.
“Your turn,” she said, and the way she said it was part command, part promise.
She slid down, awkward at first, kissing my chest, my stomach, then working at my belt again. She got it and pulled down my jeans, eyes wide at what she found.
She wrapped her hand around me, soft at first, then firmer when she saw my reaction. She leaned in and licked, tentative, then took the head in her mouth. She choked, pulled back, laughed, then tried again, more confident.
“Is it okay?” she asked, eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“You’re doing fine,” I said. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
She giggled and went back to work.
It was her determination that did it, the way she refused to give up or slow down. I lasted longer than I should have, but not much. I warned her, but she didn’t pull away, just swallowed and then wiped her mouth, beaming.
She climbed back up and curled against me, her head on my chest, her hand tracing circles over my heart.
“I had no idea it could be like that,” she said, eyes closed, voice small.
I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, feeling the rhythm of her breath and the strange, unfamiliar peace that came with it.
The outside world was still there—the wind, the dark, the endless threat. But inside, for a minute, there was only us, tangled together, sweating and alive.
She traced the scars on my hands, fingers gentle. “Why do you do this?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Save people.”
I stared at the ceiling, the old stains and the new. “Because no one else will.”
She considered that, then kissed the inside of my wrist, where the skin was thinnest. “You don’t have to save me,” she said. “Just stay.”
I promised nothing, but I stayed.
The house creaked and groaned, the wind hurling itself at the walls, and I lay there, watching the window, her body soft and warm against mine.
Every muscle wanted to rest, but the world wouldn’t let me.
I kept watch until sleep took us both.