Chapter 7 #2
He climbs over me, slow and sure, as his mouth brushes over my collarbone, trailing down my body, leaving a hot path in its wake. My breath catches, stuck somewhere between panic and anticipation.
“This isn’t what I expected when you said you wanted to make sure my room was safe,” I whisper, breathless but laced with sarcasm, trying to sound like I still have an ounce of control. I don’t.
His grin darkens as his palm presses between my thighs.
“No?” His voice dips lower, hungrier. “So you don’t want this?” His hand slides down, fingers trailing over the soaked fabric between my legs, making me flinch. “Tell me to stop then, little relapse.”
His mouth grazes my jaw, then my neck, then down lower.
“Lie to me,” he murmurs. “I like it so much better when you lie.”
I don’t lie.
I don’t say a damn thing.
Because I can’t .
He peels my shorts and panties down in one slow motion, like he’s unwrapping something he’s craved for weeks. His dark eyes stay locked on mine while he drops to his knees.
His tongue swipes over me once, slow, deliberate, and I feel it. The cold flick of his tongue ring against my clit, sharp and unexpected.
My whole body jolts.
Oh fuck.
He doesn’t stop, just dives in like he’s starving. Tongue and lips working in brutal sync, and that piercing? It drives me insane. Flicking, rubbing, catching just right every time he moves. He sucks and licks like he’s got something to prove, like he wants to brand me from the inside out.
My breath shatters into gasps, thighs trembling against his shoulders, hips jerking up without permission.
That ring slides against me again, and I swear I see stars.
His fingers trail lower, slow and deliberate, until they find the soaked heat between my thighs.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick with lust. “You’re dripping.”
I flinch when his fingertip grazes me, sensitive as hell, every nerve on high alert.
“So fuckin’ sweet, little relapse,” he murmurs, kissing along the inside of my thigh. “Exactly how I like it. All that spice up top, soft and sweet as sin where it counts.”
Oh, Jesus.
I don’t answer. My brain isn’t working. My sarcasm isn’t working. All I can do is bite down on the inside of my cheek and try to act like I’m not one flick away from turning into a puddle.
His mouth presses to my center again—one hot, sinful kiss—and then his tongue parts me as his finger pushes in.
Just one.
I sit up a little, chest heaving, heat licking up my spine like a fuse. “Spit on me.”
He pauses. Looks up, confused. Like maybe he didn’t hear me right.
“I want you to spit on me,” I say again, quieter now, but steady.
His eyes darken. He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t make a comment. Just shifts, slow and deliberate, and spits—hot and wet—right onto my clit.
And I melt.
God, I’ve been thinking about that since the alley. Since I watched him spit on the guy he yanked off me like it was nothing. Like he owned the fucking street, owned the air. Like his disgust was sacred. I’ve wanted that on me. Claimed like that. Marked like that.
Yeah. Real healthy, Blair.
Now it’s all over me—sticky, warm, obscene—and I fucking whimper.
Jesus Christ. Who wants this? Who thinks like this?
Oh, right. Me. Apparently me.
I should be ashamed. I should be telling him to back off. I should be thinking about literally anything other than how good it feels—how hot it is—to be treated like something filthy and his.
But all I can think is more . Give me more. Ruin me, spit and all.
“Goddamn,” he growls. “You feel like fucking silk. Like you were made to be wrapped around me.”
My hips jerk.
My sarcasm finally bubbles back to the surface but it’s weak, breathless. Barely alive . “You always talk like a walking sex ad, or am I just lucky?”
“Shut up,” he grins against my skin. “You like it.”
Unfortunately, yes. Yes, I fucking do.
His tongue moves again—slow and filthy, dragging over me with that cold flick of metal.
The ball of his tongue ring hits my clit just right, over and over, sending shockwaves through my entire body. It’s not just the pressure, it’s the texture , the contrast of soft and hard, heat and steel. Every swirl makes me twitch, makes my hips jerk up like I’m chasing it.
And while I’m unraveling under his mouth, his finger moves with hypnotic precision, pumping in and out of me so perfectly I swear I lose time. Every curl hits a spot that makes my eyes roll back in my head.
I don’t even notice the second finger until he presses it in—stretching me, filling me—and all I can do is moan and take it, thighs trembling, tongue ring still pulsing against me like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Because he does.
I gasp.
“Oh fuck?—”
He groans, like my reaction turns him on more than anything. “So tight,” he grits. “Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go. Like you wanna keep me.”
Jesus Christ , I think. He’s fingering me like it’s a goddamn love language.
And worse?
It’s working.
His tongue flicks harder, faster, circling my clit with maddening rhythm. His fingers thrust deeper, rougher. The burn and stretch of the second one makes me lightheaded. My thighs twitch. My hands tangle in his hair like I’m trying to fuse us together.
“Thought I’d show you what it could feel like,” he says between strokes, voice low and rough. “Me. You. This high. Nothing else matters. Not the motel. Not the mess. Just your taste. My mouth. And the way you fall apart when I touch you.”
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Just a needy sound that embarrasses me on a spiritual level.
He fucking groans again. “You’re my drug, Blair. The only thing that’s ever had me so fucking addicted.”
That should scare me. It should fucking terrify me.
Instead I rock against his mouth, chasing every syllable like it’s oxygen.
“Come on, baby,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “Be a good little hit—give me the fucking high I’ve been chasing.”
The orgasm hits hard, no warning. No control. I moan loud, long, head tossing back into the mattress as every muscle in my body pulls tight and explodes. My vision whites out. My legs shake. My core clamps down around his fingers like I never want him to leave.
And honestly?
I don’t.
My body melts into the bed, mind fried, every cell singing like I just got mainlined by euphoria.
He groans again like he’s just fed a fucking craving, licking me like he’s savoring the aftershock.
Then he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawls up my body.
I reach for him without thinking, my hand sliding down to palm him through his jeans.
Holy shit.
He's hard. Big. Like, are-you-kidding-me big. Of course he is. Because apparently the universe isn’t done fucking with me.
“No.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans in, kissing me. Deep. Lingering. Like he’s trying to remember my taste, my mouth, my fucking soul.
“This wasn’t about fucking you,” he says, voice softer now, but no less intense. “This was about showing you what I can give you. That I can make you feel so good you forget how to breathe, without the drugs or the booze.”
He pauses, fingers brushing over my cheek—slow, almost tender—before he stands. His bare chest catches the moonlight leaking through the thin curtain, all abs and ink.
He reaches for his hoodie and jacket, both tossed over the nearby chair, but I sit up fast, grabbing the hoodie with both hands.
“Mine now,” I mumble, already dragging it into my lap like a kid stealing a stuffed animal.
He raises a brow, amused. “You always this clingy after getting off?”
“Only when the hoodie’s soft,” I deadpan.
He huffs a low laugh but doesn’t fight me on it. Instead, he pulls on the leather jacket alone, shrugging it over his shoulders, no shirt underneath. Just warm, tattooed skin and a whole lot of smug attitude.
And I can’t lie.
It’s a fucking look.
Then he grabs my phone off the nightstand, taps something in, and hands it back.
I follow him to the door, tugging his hoodie over my head as I go.
It’s too big, sleeves swallowing my hands, the fabric soft and worn and still warm from his body.
Smells like smoke and danger and whatever cologne he wears that should honestly be illegal.
I sink into it anyway, like it might keep me tethered to what just happened. To him.
He glances back just as I pull the hood up, and that crooked smirk makes a slow appearance, curling at the edge of his mouth like he’s tasting something sweet.
“You look better in that than I do,” he mutters, eyes dragging down my body like he’s mentally peeling the whole thing off me again.
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. I’m still wearing the aftershocks of his mouth between my thighs.
He steps toward the door, hand on the knob but before opening it, he looks at me again. This time, serious. Jaw set, voice low.
“My number’s in your phone.”
A pause.
“Call me if anything happens.”
I nod once, already bracing for the shift in air when he leaves.
But then he pauses. Looks at me with that tilted head, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.
“That thing you said,” he murmurs. “About the spit.”
Oh god. Of course he brings it up now .
I try to play it cool, but I can feel my ears heating.
“It’s—uh—it’s not like a thing thing. I just…
” I trail off, then sigh, waving a hand like that’ll somehow make me sound less insane.
“That night behind the warehouse, when you pulled that guy off me and spit on him? Yeah. That kinda burned itself into my brain. Like, why was that hot? I don’t know. I don’t make the rules.”
He stares for a second, then barks a laugh. A real one. Rough, surprised and totally unbothered.
One step. Then another, and suddenly he’s right in front of me again.
He grabs my jaw with one hand, fingers squeezing my cheeks just enough to make me feel like I’m about to get scolded and kissed at the same time.
“You should’ve said something sooner, baby,” he says, grinning like he’s about to ruin my life. “Could’ve made all your nasty little dreams come true.”
Then he spits—slow, lazy, right into my open mouth, and my soul straight-up leaves the chat.
I don’t even have time to be shocked before he crashes his mouth into mine—tongue and teeth and heat. It’s disgusting. It’s hot. I’m short-circuiting.
When he pulls back, he’s still grinning, thumb swiping across my lip.
“I’ll spit on you— in you—whenever the fuck you want.”
My brain just bluescreened.
He steps back, finally heading for the door. I’m still rooted in place like an overheated iPhone.
His hand lifts, fingers brushing under my chin, rough and careful all at once.
“And Blair?”
“Yeah?”
Jesus Blair, you sound like a goddamn squeaky toy. Chill the fuck out.
“Lock your fucking door.”
Then he’s gone. And I’m standing there in his hoodie, tasting him on my lips, wondering how the hell that just happened.
Holy. Shit.
What the fuck just happened?
I’m standing barefoot in a shitty motel room that smells like stale fries and spilled soda, wearing a drug dealer’s hoodie like it’s a goddamn trophy.
My thighs are still sticky with proof that he’s way too good with that mouth.
My brain’s fried. My heartbeat’s tap-dancing in my chest like it’s training for the fucking Olympics.
I just got eaten out like a goddamn dessert course by a man with bruises on his ribs and sin carved into his skin and now he’s walking off into the night like this wasn’t the most unhinged, toe-curling, blackout-inducing orgasm I’ve ever had.
And me? I let him.
Worse—I wanted him to.
Jesus, Blair. You’re supposed to be grieving. Investigating. Healing. Not fucking DJs and riding a dealer’s face like it’s your new favorite hobby.
I reach up and tug the hood lower over my face like that might hide the fact I just came harder than I ever have in my entire goddamn life.
I’m so fucked.
And not even in the way I really wanted to be.