Chapter Twenty-Two
~ Floyd ~
The quiet in my living room was a different breed than the silence of a hospital, or the hush that comes after a gun goes off and the world waits to see who falls. This was the hush after you finally call the fire department, and the ashes are still warm but the flames have nothing left to eat.
I’d always hated the sound of my own house after a long day—tick of the fridge compressor, the radiator pipes burping at odd intervals, the ghostly echo of a TV I never bothered to turn on. But with Ransom on the couch beside me, knees almost touching, it didn’t bother me at all.
The quiet was full, not empty.
He slouched at the far end, one arm thrown over the back like he owned the place, the other twirling a pen between his fingers. I could see the bruises coming in on his knuckles, just like mine. We matched, in a way, though I doubt either of us would ever admit it out loud.
For a while we said nothing, just watched the sunlight crawl down the far wall, bleaching the edge of the old family photos and pooling on the hardwood like gold.
Ransom’s eyes tracked the movement, but every few seconds he’d glance at me, just to check if I was still there. I did the same to him. It was like neither of us trusted the other not to vanish if we blinked.
When he finally spoke, it was a whisper, as if the words might break something in the air. “So what now, Sheriff?” The nickname was half-tease, half-dare.
I shrugged. “I was hoping you’d have the plan, McKenzie. You’re the one with the art school education.”
He smiled, crooked. “Didn’t cover this scenario. Closest we got was a semester on performance art, and that was mostly getting naked and pretending to set things on fire.”
“I’d pay to see that,” I said.
He gave a little snort, but the warmth in it made my face heat up. I looked away, stared at my hands, which had started to twitch again now that there was no crisis to solve.
“What about the shop?” I asked. “You gonna start over?”
He shrugged, but I could see the flicker of pain behind his eyes.
“Maybe. I keep thinking I’ll fix it, put the walls back up and get the neon going again.
But every time I walk past, it just smells like burnt plastic and bad memories.
” He let the pen roll across the coffee table. “Might be time to do something else.”
“You’re not quitting,” I said, more desperate than I meant.
He looked at me, then shook his head. “No. Not quitting. Just…maybe I’ll do the thing I always wanted. Paint, draw, whatever. Set up a little studio and see what happens.”
I grunted. “You could use my spare room.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You offering?”
I said it without thinking: “Wouldn’t mind the company.”
He grinned, slow and wide. “You trying to get me to move in, Sheriff?”
The words hung in the air. My chest squeezed up like a fist, and I was suddenly aware of how real this was, how close he was to just—being mine. I opened my mouth, tried to make a joke, but what came out instead was, “If you want to.”
He stared at me, and something in his face cracked, just for a second. The smartass look faded, and all that was left was hope and a little terror.
“I do,” he said. “More than anything.”
I nodded, unsure if I’d heard him right. Then, before I could overthink it, I got up, crossed the two feet between us, and straddled his lap. My ribs screamed in protest, but I didn’t care. He was solid under me, muscle and heat, and I wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there forever.
His hands went to my hips instantly, strong and sure, holding me steady. I framed his face with my palms, roughing up the hair at his temples, feeling the stubble rasp against my thumbs.
I said, “I’m going to move you in here and I’m going to live with you and your little art studio and one day, I’m going to marry you. I’m never letting you leave me again.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Jesus, Floyd, you don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“Nope,” I said, and kissed him.
His mouth was hot and hungry, tongue pushing in to claim mine, teeth clashing hard enough to bruise.
He grabbed my ass, pulling me down tight against his lap, and I could feel the bulge of him through the thin cotton of his jeans.
I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, and he made a sound in his throat like a growl.
He broke the kiss long enough to say, “You keep that up, I’m going to fuck you right here.”
I nipped at his jaw, feeling reckless. “That’s the idea.”
He laughed, but it died in a gasp when I ground down again, hard. His fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, tattooed knuckles going white. I cupped his face, kissed him again, slower this time, letting the heat build.
I could feel the shape of his cock through the denim, thick and hot, and I wanted it inside me so bad my whole body ached. But mostly, I just wanted to feel him—his heartbeat, his breath, the way he held me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
He pulled back, forehead resting against mine, his eyes gone dark and glassy. “You’re really not letting me go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” I said.
He kissed me again, all teeth and tongue and desperate wanting, and I let myself get lost in it. The rest of the world could burn. We had everything we needed, right here.
It only took a second for the kiss to go from “I missed you” to “I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.
” I don’t know who started it—maybe both of us—but suddenly we were clawing at each other, mouths slamming together, hands yanking at shirt hems and belt buckles, desperate for skin.
Ransom’s fingers dug into my hips, dragging me hard against the length of his cock.
It was already straining at his zipper, pressing up so hot and demanding it was like the only thing in the universe that mattered.
I gasped into his mouth, the friction making my head swim, and that just made him grip me harder, like he could fuse us together through force of will.
I broke the kiss long enough to wrench at his t-shirt, hauling it over his head and flinging it somewhere over my shoulder. The tattoos on his chest and arms looked even darker in the evening light, shadow pooling in the valleys of muscle and ink.
He reached for my shirt, and I let him rip it open, buttons pinging off the coffee table, exposing my ribs and the angry bruise blooming there.
He paused, just for a second, tracing the bruise with the backs of his fingers, gentle and soft in a way that made my throat close up. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, thumb circling the darkest spot.
“Not as much as I want you to,” I said.
He made a noise, half-growl, half-laugh, and leaned down to bite the place where my neck met my shoulder.
Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to mark.
I raked my nails over his chest, feeling the hot flex of muscle beneath, and then slid both hands down to his belt.
I unbuckled it in one move, dragging the denim open, my knuckles brushing the heat trapped inside.
He caught my wrist, and for a second I thought he’d stop me, but instead he just held me there, eyes dark as midnight.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.
I didn’t answer, just slid off the rest of his jeans, pushing them down to his knees.
His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, the head already wet with need.
I wanted it in my mouth, wanted to taste him, but he tugged me up with one hand at the back of my neck and kissed me again, even harder than before.
We struggled out of the rest of our clothes, a tangle of limbs and curses and laughter, and when we were finally skin to skin, I climbed back into his lap. My ass pressed against his cock, the thickness of it sliding between my cheeks, making me moan and grind down until I was dizzy.
He bit at my nipples, sucking and tugging until they were hard and sore. Every time he did, I felt it like an electric shock straight to my dick. I tried to jerk myself off, but he caught my hand and pinned it to his chest.
“Not yet,” he murmured, voice like velvet scraped over gravel. “Want to see you fall apart first.”
He let go of my wrist, only to slide his hands down the line of my back, stopping to squeeze my ass, spreading me open. He spat in his hand and rubbed it between my cheeks, fingers finding the spot and teasing it, circling but not pushing in.
I was already half-gone, rocking on his lap, but when he finally slipped one finger inside, I almost came on the spot. He worked me open slow, adding another, twisting and scissoring, getting me ready even as I begged him to just do it, please, just fuck me.
He ignored my whining, all patience and control, his mouth moving up my throat and jaw, nipping at my ear. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, over and over. “So fucking tight, so good for me, can’t believe you’re mine.”
I wanted to tell him he was being sappy, but all I could do was whimper and rut against his hand, every nerve in my body tuned to him.
At some point he fished a condom and a single use packet of lube out of the pocket of his jeans, ripped the condom open with his teeth, and rolled it on with shaking hands.
He slicked himself up, and when he pulled me forward, lining me up with the blunt head of his cock, my whole body went tense with anticipation.
He kissed me, softer this time, almost gentle. “Let me,” he said, voice barely audible.
I nodded, too far gone for words. He positioned me over him, hands under my thighs, holding me steady. Then, slow and relentless, he guided me down, pushing inside inch by inch.
The stretch was perfect, just shy of too much, making me shudder with every new depth. I grabbed his shoulders for leverage, fingers digging into the ridges of his tattoos, holding on for dear life.
When I was finally seated all the way, his cock buried to the root, we both froze. His breath was ragged against my neck, his hands shaking.
“Fuck,” he said, voice broken. “Floyd—”