Chapter Three
Blair
Dagger shirtless should probably qualify as a controlled substance.
Seriously.
There’s no reason one man should be allowed to look that good while simultaneously being that emotionally repressed.
Broad shoulders covered in tattoos, veins dragging down his forearms, sweat still catching against his skin from the ride over here like some kind of biker-themed hallucination specifically designed to destroy my remaining common sense.
No, seriously, I’d like to file a complaint.
Unfortunately, I’m too busy mentally undressing him for the fifteenth time in ten minutes to figure out where I would do that though.
My hand slides up his chest while his mouth lowers to my throat, rough enough to leave heat blooming beneath my skin almost instantly.
The counter digs into my lower back when he lifts me onto it like I weigh absolutely nothing, one sweep of his arm sending whatever was sitting there crashing somewhere onto the floor behind me.
Something glass shatters.
Very symbolic.
In the heat of the moment, I love that for us, because neither of us even glance toward it.
The tension between us stopped being normal the second he brought me back to his apartment. Now it feels like standing too close to a fire and deciding to lean in anyway just to see what burns first.
Probably me.
Again.
My head pounds, the hangover mixing with whatever I snorted or swallowed at the party house. Dagger's eyes burn with that mix of fury and relief, like despite being the reason I fucking left, he’s been hunting me for months and finally cornered his damn prize.
He doesn't say a word at first. Just grabs my hips and yanks me fully to the edge of the counter.
The edge digs hard into the backs of my thighs, forcing my legs apart as he steps between them.
Cabinets rattle from the force, a chaotic echo in this messy, uncontrolled space littered with dirty dishes and spilled booze.
“Well, look who’s giving into his own addiction after lecturing me,” I snap, my voice hoarse and feisty, even as my pulse races.
Internally, I'm cracking up at myself.
Great, Blair, mouth off to the guy who looks ready to devour you after months apart.
Real smart.
But in typical me fashion, the words keep coming.
“Was that the plan all along, find me hungover and glittered up from some wild night, and bring me back here so you can play caveman and get your fucking fix?”
Dagger lets out this low, irritated sound against my mouth like I’m personally ruining his life in real time, and honestly?
Fair.
His hands slide over me fast and rough, cold rings scraping against my skin while he drags me closer until there’s basically no space left between us at all.
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
Not soft, cause with him, it’s never soft.
It’s all teeth and tongue and frustration, like he’s trying to punish me and kiss me at the exact same time. The cold metal of his tongue ring drags against my mouth every time he kisses me deeper, sharp enough to make heat shoot straight through me embarrassingly fast.
God.
That stupid fucking piercing should not affect me this much.
I moan into his mouth before my pride can stop me, and immediately hate myself a little for how fast my body folds for him.
Pathetic behavior from me honestly.
His mouth drops to my throat next, biting hard enough to make my head tip back while his breathing turns heavier against my skin.
“Cocky little relapse,” he mutters roughly between kisses, voice thick with anger and something way more dangerous underneath it. “Walking around acting like you’re not fucking fiending for this the same way I am.”
Okay, rude.
Accurate unfortunately, but still rude.
Because sure, maybe I have thought about him more than once since the hospital.
Maybe I have replayed the memory of his hands, his mouth, the stretch of him inside me while lying awake in random beds trying not to lose my mind.
But every time I started missing them too much, I’d remember waking up alone. Remember them erasing every trace of themselves from my life like I was some bad trip they needed to clean up.
That part always burned hotter.
My nails scrape down his back when he yanks me flush against him again, the counter rattling hard enough to smack against the wall behind me.
And oh.
There it is.
The hard press of him through his jeans.
Pierced. Thick. Already throbbing against me like he’s losing control as fast as I am.
My stomach flips instantly.
Which feels medically unnecessary at this point.
I laugh breathlessly, getting mouthier as heat builds low in my belly.
"Oh please. You think I didn’t have other entertainment while I was gone? I mean you made me think you never existed, remember? Sorry, the supposed imagery dick was good but not good enough to relive in my head,"
My hands fist in his shirt, but I arch into his neck kisses, letting him feel how worked up I'm getting. He responds by grinding harder, one ringed hand sliding up to squeeze my ass while the other pins my thigh, spreading me wider.
The smell of smoke mixes with our sweat, the kitchen spinning in messy disarray around us.
He gets rougher after that, mouth dragging over my collarbone while his hands slide down my body with possessive impatience.
“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” he mutters against my skin, voice rough enough to make heat curl low in my stomach. “That mouth on you… goddamn, I missed every smart ass word.”
The praise hits embarrassingly hard.
Especially when paired with the feeling of him tugging my holographic panties aside just enough to make my breath catch.
My pulse jumps instantly when he frees himself, the metal of his piercings catching briefly beneath the kitchen lights while he strokes himself once, slow and deliberate like he knows exactly what seeing it does to me.
Cocky asshole.
Then he drags the tip between my thighs. Slow and teasing.
The cool metal brushes against me first, circling my entrance lazily while my entire body tenses in anticipation. Every tiny movement sends heat spiraling through me sharper and sharper until I’m gripping the edge of the counter hard enough my knuckles ache.
“Dagger—”
“I know,” he murmurs darkly, one hand flattening against my stomach to hold me still while he rolls his hips slowly, dragging the tip against me again. “Feel how fucking wet you are for me?”
God.
The stretch hits the second he finally pushes inside.
Slow at first.
Deep enough to make my mouth fall open immediately while the pressure of him spreads through me inch by inch, thick and overwhelming after months without him.
The drag of his piercing makes it worse in the best possible way.
Sharp little flashes of sensation that leave my thighs trembling before he’s even fully inside me.
“Fuck,” I gasp, head dropping forward when he bottoms out with a rough groan against my shoulder.
It feels too full.
Too good.
Like my body remembers him instantly and hates me for ever trying to go without.
“Fuck, I missed you,” he mutters wreckedly before his hips snap forward hard enough to shove the counter into my thighs.
The cabinets rattle behind us immediately.
So do my thoughts honestly.
I smirk coyly, gripping anything I can to hold on as he slams into me, and fire back mouthily, "Yeah? Prove it, asshole. Fuck me harder."
My breath catches embarrassingly fast when his grip tightens harder against my hips, possessive enough to bruise, like letting go of me isn’t even an option anymore.
And the worst part?
The really humiliating part?
I like it.
A lot.
His mouth drags against my throat while every movement turns rougher, deeper, and desperate in a way that feels less like sex and more like somebody finally snapping after holding themselves together too long.
“Fuck,” he growls against my skin, voice wrecked enough to send heat spiraling straight through me. “There she is. My perfect fucking fix.”
The words hit low in my stomach instantly.
Because there’s something almost feral in the way he says it.
Not playful, but obsessive.
Like he hates how much he needs this and surrendered to it anyway.
His hand slides up my body slowly, fingers spreading across my ribs like he’s trying to hold onto all of me at once while his eyes stay locked on mine with this dark, starving intensity that makes my pulse trip over itself.
“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” he mutters roughly.
The laugh that leaves me comes out breathless and shaky around the edges.
“Probably something deeply emotionally damaging.”
His grip tightens immediately.
“Months,” he says, almost angry now. “Months trying not to fucking need you like this. Then you walk back into my life looking like trouble and drugs and bad decisions—”
His hand slides up my throat gently, possessively, forcing my eyes back to his.
“After I told you not to go back to that shit,” he growls, voice rough against my mouth. “Told you those pills were gonna fucking ruin you.”
Heat flashes straight through me.
“Dagger—”
“No,” he cuts me off darkly, forehead pressing against mine for half a second. “Instead you come back here swallowing random shit from strangers trying to chase a high that was never gonna hit the same.”
The words land hard because underneath the anger, there’s guilt there too.
Ugly. Heavy. Real.
Like he knows he’s part of the reason I spiraled right back into it.
His eyes drag over my face slowly before dropping lower when my thighs tighten instinctively around him.
Of course he notices.
“There you go,” he mutters roughly, voice lowering another octave. “Knew your pretty body still remembered me, little relapse.”
The praise settles somewhere dangerous inside me while his grip flexes harder against my waist.
Heavy breathing fills the air, our bodies colliding in the wrecked kitchen while anger melts into something hotter. Messier. Relief and possession tangled together with every movement.
And somehow he still looks mad about wanting me this much.