Chapter Thirteen
Sara
I came with a shudder that stole my breath. He didn’t stop. He didn’t let me catch it. He was still inside me—thick, pulsing, relentless—his hands anchoring me as I gasped into his mouth, barely remembering who I was, only what I was feeling.
God, I’d come hard, and still my body screamed for more.
My hands gripped his shoulders. My head fell back. I wasn’t in control. Not of my body. Not of him. Not of anything anymore.
And I loved it.
He pulled his mouth from mine, eyes blazing as he looked at me—really looked. His lips curved into something raw and reverent, and then—
Rip.
He tore the remnants of my panties aside like paper.
“Mine,” he growled, voice low and full of heat, and walked me backward.
The wall stopped us, cold against my shoulder blades.
I braced as he slammed into me.
Not cruel.
Not careless.
Just . . . all of him.
Every inch. Every promise. Every decision to choose me.
He fucked me like he meant it, like he needed this to be real, like he needed me to be real. My back hit the wall again and again as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, and still I clung—fingers clawing at his hair, the wall, his back—anything to keep me tethered.
I came again, a shockwave that cracked me wide open. I cried out, and he caught the sound with a kiss, not slowing, not letting me hide from it.
Then he stilled inside me. His arms caged me. His mouth brushed my ear.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered. “You have me now. And I swear, I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
My heart. My stupid, breaking heart.
I wanted to say something. Anything. But the words tangled in my throat. I couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.
He pulled back.
I thought it was over. I thought he’d give me a chance to steady myself.
I was wrong.
He didn’t walk away.
He sank to his knees.
One leg lifted—then the other. He hooked them over his shoulders and gripped my thighs like he’d never let go. Like they were his to worship.
“This . . .” he murmured, voice rough as his breath ghosted across my sex, “this is my favorite place to be.”
Then his tongue found me, and all rational thought exploded.
I screamed, hands slamming to the wall behind me to keep myself upright. His mouth was relentless, decadent, sinful. His fingers slid inside me again—thrusting, curling, coaxing while his tongue danced over my clit.
I was lost.
No shields. No plan. No mask.
Just a woman unraveling on the edge of a man’s tongue.
I was wide open—heart, body, everything—and I knew I’d hate myself in the morning.
But right now?
All I could do was moan his name and beg him not to stop.
In the aftermath, he carried me to bed.
I didn’t remember how.
One second, I was a heap of muscle and sensation clinging to him, the next, I was on cool sheets, his body sliding between my thighs again, heat blooming in every overused nerve ending.
He kissed my neck, my collarbone, the slope of my breast. Slow now. Reverent again.
“I’m up for round two,” he whispered, voice half-laugh, half-growl.
I reached between us and wrapped my fingers around his cock—already hard again.
“Yes,” I panted, grinning like a woman undone. “Yes, you are.”
Then I dipped my head, kissed the tip of him, and added, “And so am I.”
Later, how much later I didn’t know, he fell asleep in my arms with his head on my chest and his body wrapped around mine like a promise.
I held him, trembling with the aftershocks of release . . . and something worse.
Guilt.
I’d crossed a line no agent should. I’d used his trust, his kindness, to get closer to the Gravestones’ secrets, to the truth about Max’s death. Then let things get too real.
This was bad.
His arm draped over my waist, heavy and trusting in sleep, his face was soft, unguarded. Ashen. It felt right to call him that.
He didn’t deserve the name the Gravestones had given him. And the extent of the abuse he’d suffered at their hands? I shuddered as I imagined the extent of it.
I remembered the gentle expression on his face when Sparkles had looked at him with trust. He wasn’t pretending to be kind—he was.
I’m the villain of this story.
How did that happen?
Max—what am I doing?
I studied Enimton’s face: his sharp jaw, the faint scar above his brow, the way his lips parted in sleep. What am I supposed to do with him?
The answer came as if from outside my head.
Save him.
My gut clenched.
And lose everything?
Lose him because he won’t forgive me once he discovers I’ve lied to him.
Forfeit the truth—when I’m so close to uncovering it?
Risk termination from the Bureau—I’m not supposed to be working the Simmons case?
But what’s the alternative?
I can’t lie to him anymore.
He deserves to know he isn’t a Gravestone.
He deserves to know he didn’t deserve anything they did to him.
I need to free him . . . just like Max freed Mom and me.
It’s not just what Max would have done, it’s the only option I can live with.
Enimton is a good man and a victim.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell him everything.
Sara the agent wouldn’t, but my job didn’t define who I was any more than it had defined Max. Enimton might never forgive me, but that wasn’t something I had control over. What I could control was my role in this.
I wouldn’t tell him that I was falling for him. Not yet. He’d need to find his footing again after hearing the truth of how he’d been manipulated not only by me but by the people who’d claimed to be his family.
The truth is going to crush him.
I thought about how I’d felt on the couch with him, how conflicted I’d become when I realized I felt safe with him in a way I hadn’t felt since Max had died.
I have issues.
But they don’t have to become his.
I’ll tell him the truth about the Gravestones and about why I pretended to be a romance author.
Max, I hated you for leaving us—for risking your life for whatever you found in those cold case files. But I understand now.
Tonight, I found a cause I’m willing to die for.
Even if I lose my job at the Bureau—I’ll watch over this man.
The Gravestones will never hurt him again.
Sleep came reluctantly, but the morning sunshine hit me like a slap. I sat up with a jolt and knew, before listening for proof, that Enimton was gone.