Chapter Twenty-Two
Adriana
The son of a bitch is carrying me and says he’s going to put me to bed, like I’m some disobedient child.
I’ll show him.
“No, I won’t go to bed,” I say, squirming and flailing my arms in a vain attempt to hit him. It doesn’t do much good, except to earn a firm smack on my ass.
“Stop it. You’re going to bed, and that’s it.” Then, I’m tossed through the air and onto the bed, and he points a finger at me as I lie on the bed, glaring at him. “I’m fucking done with your petulant bullshit. Do what’s good for you: go the fuck to sleep.”
I flip him off and stick out my tongue because I’m a mature adult and no one tells me what to do.
He rolls his vibrant eyes, snorts, and leaves.
The door clicks shut, and I'm alone with the spinning room and my wounded pride. I should be furious. I am furious. But the alcohol has made everything soft around the edges, including my anger.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come. The bed feels too big, too empty. My body still thrums with adrenaline from our confrontation, from the way he manhandled me like I weighed nothing at all.
Like I was his to command.
The thought should piss me off more than it does. Instead, my mind drifts to earlier tonight, to the moment his mouth crashed against mine. The memory hits me like a physical blow — the desperate hunger in that kiss, the way his hands tangled in my hair like he was drowning and I was air.
This isn't how I imagined him at all; the Reaper I'd built in my head was a monster, a heartless dealer who'd destroyed my sister without a second thought.
But the man who just put me to bed? The one who bakes fucking cookies for abuse victims and fixes their broken shit?
The one who basically worked a case with me to get Mario to back off and had no problem letting me take the lead?
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. Now I can see his face clearly, those impossible eyes that seem to look right through me. There's something hypnotic about them, something that makes my pulse quicken in ways I don't want to examine too closely.
Heat pools low in my belly as I remember the weight of his body against mine, the way his voice went rough when he said my name and commanded me to go to bed.
I should get up. Take a cold shower. Do something other than lie here thinking about him like some lovesick teenager. But my body has other ideas, and the alcohol has stripped away my usual iron control.
My hand drifts down my stomach almost without conscious thought, slipping beneath the waistband of my jeans. The fabric feels too tight, too restrictive. I shimmy out of them with clumsy, urgent movements, kicking them off the end of the bed.
The cool air hits my skin and I shiver, but not from cold. My fingers find the edge of my underwear, and I hesitate for just a moment before sliding them down my legs too.
This is insane. This is Reaper I'm thinking about — the man I came here to destroy. But my body doesn't care about logic right now. It only remembers the way he looked at me, the way his hands felt when they gripped my waist.
I close my eyes and let my imagination take over. In my mind, he's still here. The door opens, and he steps back inside, those magnetic eyes dark with want. He says nothing, just moves toward the bed with predatory grace.
My fingers work slowly at first, teasing myself the way I imagine he would. He'd take his time, wouldn't he? Strip away my defenses layer by layer until I was completely at his mercy.
The fantasy shifts, and suddenly he's kneeling between my legs, that cocky smirk replaced by something hungrier. His mouth is hot against my skin, his tongue working me with ruthless precision. The thought makes me arch against my own touch, a soft moan escaping my lips.
In my fantasy, he doesn't hold back. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider as his mouth devours me. I can almost feel the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, the way he'd look up at me with those devastating eyes while he worked me toward the edge.
My breathing grows ragged as I imagine him rising over me, positioning himself between my legs. He wouldn't be gentle - not with all that anger and tension crackling between us. He'd take me hard and demanding, the way he'd kissed me earlier.
The fantasy builds as my fingers move faster. I picture him driving into me with desperate hunger, his hands pinning my wrists above my head. The bed would creak under our combined weight as he claimed me completely, roughly, like he owned me.
My body tightens as the fantasy reaches its peak. In my mind, he's growling my name against my throat, his movements becoming more urgent, more possessive. The imagined sensation of him filling me completely pushes me over the edge.
"Reaper!" His name tears from my throat as my climax crashes through me, my back arching off the bed.
The sound of my own voice crying out for him snaps me back to reality with brutal clarity. I lay there panting, staring at the ceiling as shame and confusion wash over me in equal measure.
My body still thrums with aftershocks as I lie there frozen, listening to the silence beyond the door. The sound of my voice crying out his name echoes in my head like an accusation. Did he hear me? Is he standing out there right now, knowing exactly what I just did?
I strain my ears, waiting for footsteps or the creak of floorboards, but there's nothing. Just the sound of my own ragged breathing. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he's already asleep on the couch. Maybe I'm overthinking this.
The cool air raises goosebumps across my naked skin, and I shiver as the last waves of pleasure fade into embarrassment. My body feels hypersensitive, every nerve ending still firing. I should put my clothes back on, but I can't seem to make myself move.
The alcohol is pulling me toward sleep now, making my eyelids heavy. Whatever damage I've done to my pride tonight, I'll deal with it in the morning. Right now I just want to forget this whole mess ever happened.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the mattress, willing my racing heart to slow down. Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, promising escape from my mortification.
The soft click of the door opening makes my eyes snap wide.