16. Shanay
Sixteen
Shanay
My body gives out before my voice does.
The second I feel him—his arms, his chest, his breath—I stop fighting. I let go.
I remember being lifted.
Smoke and ash swirling around us.
His shirt pressed to my face.
His voice in my ear, rough and steady, saying, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
The air hits colder outside. But he’s warm.
And I’m in his arms.
—-
Mike doesn’t walk—he storms.
Straight out of the wreckage with me held tight to his chest.
One arm under my knees, the other around my back, fingers splayed wide like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his grip.
My cheek is pressed to his collarbone. His heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it against my jaw.
His shirt is soaked with sweat and smoke.
His jaw is locked tight, that scar above his brow smeared.
His eyes—when I glance up—are wild.
Terrified.
And still scanning for threats.
“Mike,” I whisper, voice raw.
He doesn’t look down.
Just tightens his grip and keeps moving.
—-
The EMTs meet us halfway.
“I’m not putting her down,” he growls when they try to take me.
I blink up at him, dazed.
They let him carry me straight into the back of the ambulance.
He climbs in behind me, sits, cradles me against him like I’m the only thing in the world worth protecting.
—-
He doesn’t talk during the ride.
Just holds me.
His hand cups the back of my neck. His thigh is under mine. His palm finds mine and laces our fingers.
And every time the ambulance bumps or jerks, he pulls me in tighter.
Like he thinks he can keep the world from hurting me ever again.
—-
The hospital is bright and sterile.
They separate us to run tests.
I feel it the second I’m not touching him.
But every time I look toward the curtain, he’s there.
When they finally let him in, he stands next to the bed and grabs my hand like it’s a lifeline.
And for hours—until I fall asleep to the sound of machines and murmuring nurses—he doesn’t let go.
—-
They keep me overnight.
Mike sleeps in the chair with his boots on, arms folded.
He looks exhausted.
But when I stir in the early morning, he’s already awake.
Watching me.
Like I might vanish.
“You’re still here,” I whisper.
His voice is like gravel. “Of course, sweetheart.”
—-
He helps me dress once I’m discharged.
Gently peels the gown away and helps me slip my arms into my clothes.
His touch is steady. Careful.
His fingers brush the healing scrape on my temple like it hurts him.
—-
The car ride is quiet.
I glance at him. His big hands gripping the wheel. That black thermal pulled tight across his broad chest. His cut jaw still tense.
“You look like you’re trying not to kidnap me again,” I say softly.
His mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“No?”
He glances at me. “I’d call it bringing you home.”
I smile.
“Then let’s stop by my place.”
He tenses.
“To get a bag,” I add. “Unless you plan to dress me in oversized flannels and nothing else.”
He exhales. “Not a bad plan.”
I laugh.
—-
Mike walks me to my apartment. I grab clothes, a charger, my lotion, my favorite blanket. Toiletries.
When I pass him on the way out, his gaze drops.
Takes me in, head to toe.
Sweatpants. Hoodie. Messy bun.
He doesn’t touch me.
But he looks like he wants to devour me…
—-
Back at his place, Mike doesn’t push.
He helps me out of my coat. Makes me tea. Feeds me eggs and toast like I’m recovering from an illness.
When I lick a smear of butter off my lip, his fork pauses mid-air. Our gazes lock with heat, hunger, need.
“Eat,” I whisper. “Then I’m yours.”
He swallows hard.
I finish my plate.
—-
Mike watches me finish the last bite like he’s barely holding himself together.
I set my fork down and look at him. Really look.
His eyes are locked on my mouth. His jaw is tight. His Henley is stretched across his chest like it’s working overtime to hold in all that tension. All that heat.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands, takes my empty plate, and walks it to the sink with deliberate movements.
When he turns back to me, there’s something in his eyes that makes me swallow hard. Something wild.
Like he still can’t believe I’m here. Whole and his.
He crosses the room and stops in front of me, voice low. “You sure?”
I nod, but it’s not enough. I stand, slide my hands under his shirt, and press my lips to his chest—right over his heart.
“I’m sure.”
—-
Mike takes my hand and leads me to his room.
The space is quiet. Dimly lit. It smells like him, plain soap and cedar.
He turns me toward him and lifts the hem of my hoodie.
Slowly. Like he’s unwrapping something delicate.
His fingertips brush my stomach as he peels the fabric away, and I shiver—not from cold, but from how tender he’s being. Like he doesn’t want to risk hurting me after everything we’ve just been through.
He cups my cheek.
“You’re alive,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle down my jaw. “You’re safe.”
I reach for him. Frame his face. Press my lips to his and whisper, “So are you.”
Then I take his shirt off.
—-
He’s massive. Golden skin stretched over thick muscle. I trace the scars on his shoulders, down one side of his ribs. The fine trail of hair leading from his chest to the waistband of his jeans.
He watches me like I’m something he doesn’t dare touch.
So I keep going.
I reach for his belt. Undo the buckle. Tug down his jeans and his boxers.
His cock is thick. Hard. Veined. Already leaking.
And when I touch him—just the pad of one finger tracing down the underside—he hisses through his teeth.
“Shanay…”
“Yeah?” I whimper.
“You gotta let me take this slow. I need to feel all of you.”
—-
He lays me down like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
My sweatpants are gone in a blink. So are my panties.
Then his mouth is on me.
He starts with my collarbone, trailing kisses across my chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while he palms my other breast—gently at first, then rougher when I moan.
I arch into him, thighs falling open, heart pounding.
His mouth moves lower. Across my belly. My hips.
He looks up at me before he buries his face between my legs.
And fuck.
His tongue is hot and unrelenting. He licks me like he needs it, groaning into my pussy when I grip the sheets and whimper his name.
He doesn’t stop until I’m coming. Hard. Back arched. Body shaking.
—-
Mike climbs up, kissing me.
Then he slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching, groaning, when I clamp around him.
“You’re so fucking tight, baby. So wet for me.”
“Mike—please—”
He lines up at my entrance and nudges in. Just the tip.
My breath catches.
“Still good?” he asks, voice hoarse.
“Better than good.”
And then he pushes in—slow, thick, deep.
My mouth drops open. My nails dig into his shoulders.
He fills me completely. Stretches me wide. Makes me feel owned.
He pulls out halfway, then sinks in again.
“Fuck,” he groans. “This pussy was made for me.”
I moan his name and wrap my legs around him, anchoring him to me.
He thrusts again. And again. Deep, steady strokes that make my toes curl and my heart break open.
“I need to feel you,” he rasps. “Need to make you mine all over again.”
“You already have.”
He fucks me like that for what feels like forever—grinding against my clit with every pass, kissing my neck, whispering filthy things in my ear.
Telling me how good I feel.
How he’ll never stop wanting me.
How he’s never letting me go again.
And when we come, it’s together—me gasping his name, him groaning mine, his cock jerking deep inside me as I clench around him and fall apart all over again.
—-
He doesn’t leave me after.
He stays buried inside me. Face pressed to my neck. Arms wrapped around me like a shield.
And when he finally pulls back and looks down at me, his voice is a whisper:
“You good?”
I nod, still trembling. “Yeah. You?”
“I am now.”
—-
When he touches me, it’s slow.
Deliberate.
He sees me.
Every inch.
Each curve.
Every scar.
“You’re alive,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over my belly. “You’re safe.”
I reach up and frame his jaw with both hands.
“Yes, honey. We are..”
Then I pull him down to me.
It’s slow.
Deep.
High heat, low burn.
His mouth doesn’t stop moving.
Neither do his hands.
He whispers my name like a prayer and makes love to me like I’m his every reason to breathe.
And when he finally sinks in, trembling, all I can do is wrap my legs around him and give him everything I have left.
—-
I wake up warm. Naked. Sore in all the best ways.
The sheets smell like woodsmoke, soap, and something darker. Something male and musky and mine.
I stretch slowly, every muscle humming with memory.
He touched me like he couldn’t believe I was real.
Fucked me like he’d waited years.
Held me like I was the only thing that made sense in the world.
My thighs ache. My lips are swollen. My neck is marked. And I’ve never felt so… good.
I blink up at the ceiling. No panic. No nerves.
Just the steady, quiet drum of feeling content.
Then I hear him in the kitchen.
—-
When I walk out to find him, I pause in the hallway, taking me time to look.
Mike Costa.
Shirtless.
Gray sweatpants slung low.
Tattoo on one shoulder blade as he leans over the stove.
He flips pancakes the same way he could bench-press me without blinking.
And that beard?
It’s wild this morning. A little darker now that it’s grown out.
My nipples harden just looking at him.
He glances over, and that damn look crosses his face again—like I hung the moon and he hasn’t figured out how to stop staring. Doesn’t even want to.
“You should be resting,” he mutters, eyes dragging down my body.
“I am,” I say sweetly, tugging his flannel tighter around me. It’s barely buttoned. Definitely not hiding the way I’m not wearing anything under it. “This is me. At rest.”
“Shanay,” he warns.
I shrug. “You’re cooking. I thought I’d come get some food.”
He turns off the burner, piles pancakes on a plate, and sets it down in front of me at the counter.
I settle on the stool, legs crossed, thighs exposed.
Mike just stands there, with his bulky arms crossed, watching me eat with a look that says I am not helping him stay calm.
I take a bite, chewing slowly and humming in pleasure. “You know this is domestic bliss, right?”
He grunts.
“I could get used to this.” I moan again.
He cocks a brow. “Yeah?”
“Waking up sore. Stuffed with pancakes. A man who growls at me when he wants me. Living the dream.”
“Keep talkin’ like that and you’re not finishing breakfast.”
I hum. “Promise?”
—-
Ten minutes later, I’m still teasing him.
He’s trying to rinse a dish. I’m standing behind him in nothing but his flannel and my smug little smile.
“You always this bossy?” I ask, letting my fingers trail across his bare back.
Mike sets the sponge down and turns.
“Only with you.”
His hand cups the back of my neck. The other one grabs my ass through the flannel.
“You want to date?” he asks. “Go out to dinner. Walk around town like I’m not thinking about bending you over every surface in it?”
I blink. “That was the smoothest offer I’ve ever heard.”
He dips his head, chuckling. Kisses me slow. Deep.
Then growls against my mouth, “You’re mine. We’re doing this.”
I pull back just enough to grin. “You gonna growl at every man who glances my way?”
“Yes.”
“Well then,” I say, curling my fingers into his chest, “I guess we’re dating.”