Chapter Three #2
Men are so fucking exhausting honestly.
I drag my nails down his arm, breath uneven while his forehead presses hard against mine.
“Okay,” I pant, still breathless enough that the sarcasm comes out a little shaky around the edges. “You need to pick a personality here.”
His brow furrows slightly.
“What?”
“You can’t spend months trying to erase yourselves from my life,” I mutter, heat coiling tighter every time his hips move against mine, “then suddenly act all possessive because I went looking for another high.”
His jaw tightens immediately.
“Blair—”
“No seriously,” I cut in, breath catching when his grip flexes harder against my waist. “Make up your mind. Do you want me gone and pretending none of this ever happened, or do you want me crawling back here every time my life implodes because apparently you think your dick is a medically approved coping mechanism?”
That almost breaks him.
I literally watch the irritation flicker across his face while he fights a laugh and loses.
Barely.
“So fucking mouthy,” he mutters darkly.
“I’m making valid points.”
“You’re talking shit while I’m inside you.”
“Multitasking.”
“You keep pushing me,” he mutters against my mouth, voice rough enough to scrape down my spine.
I laugh softly despite myself. “You say that like you don’t enjoy it.”
His hand tightens slightly at my throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make my breath catch while his forehead presses against mine.
“That attitude’s gonna get you in trouble.”
I tilt my head slightly, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “Pretty sure we flew past trouble when you dragged me into your apartment caveman-style.”
That almost gets a smile out of him before he kisses me again harder, swallowing the rest of my smartass comments before they can leave my mouth.
Rude, but hot.
Deeply inconvenient combination.
Because now my hands are fisting in his hair and my legs are locked around his waist and I’m not sure if I’m trying to pull him deeper or push him away.
Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Or maybe I just need him to keep proving that he missed me as much as I missed him.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed to mine, and his voice comes out wrecked when
he says, “Admit you missed me,”
I laugh breathlessly, even as his cock pulses inside me. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy.”
His grip tightens on my thighs, bruising. “You’re a fucking problem.”
“Yeah, but I’m your problem.”
That gets me a growl and another brutal thrust that tips a glass off the counter and shatters it on the floor. Neither of us cares.
“You should’ve stayed away,” he says against my skin, quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince himself.
I lean back against the cabinets, trying to breathe normally while he kisses down my neck. “But I didn’t.”
“No,” he mutters, gripping my thigh harder. “You fucking didn’t.”
The way he looks at me when he pulls back enough to actually meet my eyes almost knocks the sarcasm right out of me for a second.
Almost.
Because underneath all the anger and tension and control issues, there’s something worse sitting there.
Relief.
Like he hated staying away from me just as much as I hated being left behind.
Which, okay.
I’ll admit does something deeply unfortunate to me emotionally.
I hook my legs tighter around his waist anyway, dragging him closer just to watch his jaw flex while he’s still buried deep enough inside me to make coherent thought feel genuinely optional.
Tiny victory.
Still counts.
It says congratulations Blair, you just made the emotionally unstable biker lose his fucking mind while he’s inside you.
Which might be my most toxic achievement yet.
I grin against his mouth, breathless and smug and probably making several terrible life choices simultaneously.
“Admit it, pretty boy,” I murmur, dragging my nails lightly along the back of his neck just to feel him shiver for half a second. “You missed me.”
The look he gives me after that?
Sweet jesus.
Okay Blair. Fantastic work really.
One stupid look from a tattooed drug dealer and suddenly your entire nervous system’s preparing to fold like a lawn chair.
Humiliating. Truly.
His mouth crashes into mine immediately after, but it’s not really a kiss anymore—it feels more like a whole fucking claim.
Teeth and tongue and heat and desperation while his hands drag over every inch of me like he’s trying to prove I’m actually here this time.
One hand fists into my split pink-and-purple hair hard enough to pull a gasp out of me while the other grips my waist, hauling me off the counter so fast I barely catch my balance before he spins me around.
My palms slap against the countertop, cool marble biting into overheated skin while my fuzzy lavender tube top hangs dangerously low from all the grabbing and pulling.
Glitter smears across the counter beneath me while my holographic high-waisted panties catch the kitchen light every time I move, flashing pink and silver between the straps of my platform boots planted shakily against the floor.
A bowl skitters off the edge and explodes somewhere near the sink.
Neither of us even looks.
“You wanna know how much I fucking missed you?” His voice comes rough against my ear, wrecked enough to send heat spiraling low through my stomach while his hand presses between my shoulder blades, bending me forward until my back arches.
The position makes my hair spill over one shoulder in messy cotton candy waves, the ends sticking slightly to sweaty skin while his eyes drag slowly over me like he’s starving.
Like he’s been starving.
His grip tightens possessively against my hip.
“I’m gonna show you,” he growls darkly against my throat, “until you can’t fucking walk straight.”
I should say something clever back.
I want to.
Really.
Unfortunately, that plan dies the second he pushes into me from behind.
The stretch from this angle knocks the air straight out of my lungs, deep enough that my hands slip against the counter while a sharp cry tears out of me before I can stop it.
His Jacob’s Ladder drags along every sensitive nerve inside me on the way in, the pressure rough and intense and so fucking overwhelming after months without him that my knees nearly give out instantly
“Jesus—fuck—”
My voice breaks embarrassingly hard on the last word.
Dagger catches me immediately, one arm wrapping hard around my waist before I can collapse completely, dragging me back against him while a groan rips out of his chest that sounds almost painful.
“Fuck, Blair,” he growls against my shoulder, voice wrecked enough to make heat spiral low through my stomach. “You feel—”
He cuts himself off with another thrust, harder this time, and the counter digs into my hips while the metal of his piercing drags through me again in a way that completely fries whatever functioning brain cells I had left.
“Oh my god—”
“I tried to stay away,” he mutters rough against my skin, grip tightening almost possessively around my waist while his pace turns sharper, needier. “I fucking tried.”
The confession lands somewhere deep inside me, tangled together with the heat and the pressure and the way he keeps pulling me back onto him like he physically can’t get close enough.
And the worst part?
I believe him.
“Then stop trying,” I gasp, and I hate how raw my voice sounds. How honest.
His hand slides up from my waist to wrap around my throat—not choking, just holding, like he needs the connection. His other hand grips my hip, rings cold against my heated skin, and he fucks me with a rhythm that’s pure obsession.
“You drive me insane,” he growls, his forehead pressing against the back of my neck. “You know that? Insane. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t fucking breathe without thinking about you.”
“Good,” I manage, pushing back against him, matching his rhythm. “Then you know how I felt.”
His grip on my throat tightens just barely. “I’m never letting you go again.”
And there it is.
The thing we’ve been circling around for months.
The admission.
This isn’t just sex.
This is a relapse. An addiction.
A mutual annihilation that we keep crawling back to because nothing else feels this alive.
His thrusts lose rhythm behind me, turning rougher, needier, like he’s finally running on pure instinct instead of restraint. I can feel him shaking against my back now, breath uneven where it ghosts across my shoulder while one hand slides between my thighs.
“Come apart for me, little relapse,” he growls low against my skin. “Give me the fucking fix I’ve been craving.”
The words hit somewhere dangerously deep.
I suck in a sharp breath when my body tightens hard around him, the sudden clench pulling a wrecked sound straight out of his chest.
“That’s it,” he praises darkly when my thighs start trembling. “Feel how fucking perfect you are? Knew you’d still break for me.”
Heat coils tighter and tighter in my stomach until it physically hurts, my head falling forward while the counter digs into my hips hard enough to bruise.
“Dagger—”
“I know,” he mutters wreckedly. “I fucking know. Let go for me.”
That’s what does it.
The orgasm hits fast and violent, crashing through me hard enough that my knees nearly buckle again while a broken sound tears out of my throat. My nails scrape across the countertop uselessly while I clench around him, the drag of his piercing inside me making it almost too much all at once.
“Fuck,” he groans behind me, feeling me shake apart around him. “There she is.”
His grip tightens desperately against my waist as my orgasm keeps rippling through me, and the second I gasp his name, he loses it completely.
I feel him shudder hard against my back, head dropping against my shoulder while a wrecked groan tears out of him low and rough enough to send another pulse of heat through me.
For a few seconds neither of us moves.
Just breathing and shaking.
Trying to recover from whatever the fuck that was.
And somehow, in the heavy silence afterward, the truth settles deeper than before:
This isn’t something either of us knows how to quit anymore.
He pulls out slowly, and I wince at the loss, feeling his come trickle down my thigh. He doesn’t let me go. Just turns me around, cradles my face in his hands, and presses his forehead to mine.
I try to think of a sarcastic comment. Something to break the tension.
But his eyes are wrecked. Dark-rimmed, glassy, full of something that terrifies me because it looks like feeling.
His thumb traces across my cheekbone. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Me neither.”
He lets out a shaky breath, then pulls me into his chest, still gripping me like I might disappear.
Afterward blurs together in warm flashes.
Dagger hauling me upright when my legs stop cooperating properly.
Steam curling thick through the bathroom while glitter and sweat disappear down the drain beneath my feet. His hands moving through my hair carefully despite how rough he was five minutes earlier. One of his shirts dragged over my head afterward while exhaustion settles heavy beneath my skin.
Then dark sheets and warmth.
His arm wrapping around my waist the second we hit the bed like even half-asleep he still doesn’t trust me not to disappear.
The sleep that hits me afterward is so deep it almost feels drugged.
Theres no nightmares. No static. Not even any loud buzzing in my head clawing me awake every hour.
Just quiet darkness, and him.
The best sleep I’ve had in months.
Which feels deeply emotionally inconvenient.
Unfortunately, when I wake up hours later, reality crawls back in almost immediately.
Dagger’s still dead asleep beside me, tattoos disappearing beneath tangled sheets while weak afternoon light cuts across the room. One arm’s stretched across the mattress where I was laying a second ago, fingers flexing slightly every now and then like even asleep he’s still checking I’m there.
And there it is.
That familiar itch.
Like my skin suddenly doesn’t fit right anymore.
The apartment feels too quiet and my thoughts start getting loud again.
The kind of loud that makes staying in one place feel impossible.
Suddenly staying here feels harder than leaving.
Once my feet hit the floor, it’s over.
I pull my clothes back on slowly, platform boots heavy against the floor while my fuzzy tube top still smells faintly like smoke and him now, which feels deeply inconvenient emotionally.
Then I glance back at him one last time.
Still asleep, and for one dangerous second, I almost climb back into bed.
Instead, I sneak out of the apartment before my better judgment has time to catch up.
Maybe that’s toxic.
Actually, no. Not maybe.
Definitely.
But he kind of deserves it.