Chapter Fourteen #3
Like neither of us has the strength left for rough edges tonight. Like if either one of us presses too hard, the whole fragile thing holding us upright might finally break.
His hand moves slowly down my side, palm dragging over wet skin, fingers pausing briefly at my hip before slipping lower. I shiver immediately, my body reacting before my brain has time to catch up.
Not from arousal.
Not entirely.
From comfort and grounding.
From him touching me like I’m still here. Still whole. Still something he can hold onto after a night that tried really hard to take everything from us.
His forehead rests against mine for a second, his breathing rough from pain and exhaustion while his good hand keeps moving with almost painful gentleness.
Careful and slow. Like he’s trying to guide me back into my body one touch at a time.
My eyes flutter shut.
The steam wraps around us thick and warm, the shower beating steadily against tile, the city muted beyond the bathroom walls. For a few seconds, there’s only his mouth against mine, his hand on me, the solid heat of him beneath my palms.
I let my forehead fall against his shoulder.
Let myself breathe there.
Let myself stop fighting the shaking.
His fingers trace down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, then dip between my thighs.
I inhale sharply, but it’s not a gasp of surprise.
It’s the feeling of being caught, held, seen.
His palm cups me, the heel of his hand pressing against my pussy, his fingers sliding through the slickness that’s gathered there.
Not from arousal, not entirely. From the heat of the water, the closeness, the way his body shields mine.
He doesn’t push. He just rests there, his palm warming my cunt, his fingers barely parting my folds.
“Is this okay?” His voice is low, cracked, almost lost under the spray.
I nod against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
His thumb begins to move, slow circles over my clit, barely there, more a promise than a demand. My hips shift, pressing into his hand, and I feel him exhale against my hair.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “Just let me hold you. Let me feel you.”
I don’t answer. I just let my weight fall into him, let his arm wrap around my waist to keep me upright as his fingers work me with excruciating slowness.
He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t push for more.
Every circle of his thumb is deliberate, grounding, like he’s mapping me back into existence one nerve ending at a time.
His middle finger dips lower, pressing at my entrance, and I feel the slick heat of my own body welcoming him. He pushes in just the tip, then stops, waiting.
“More?” he asks.
“More,” I breathe.
He slides deeper, one finger, then two, filling me slowly, the stretch familiar and foreign all at once. His palm rocks against my clit with every gentle thrust, and I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his wet skin.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“I know,” he says. “I know.”
He curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes my knees buckle, and presses there with steady, unhurried pressure.
I’m shaking against him, the pleasure building in slow, rolling waves, but I can feel the edge of something sharper—an orgasm waiting to crest. And I want it. My body wants it.
But he doesn’t give it to me, instead, he suddenly stills.
The shift is immediate.
Sharp and wrong.
His entire body goes rigid beneath my hands.
At first, I think I hurt him.
“Dagger?”
He doesn’t answer.
His brows pull together, confusion cutting through the softness so fast my stomach drops. His hand moves again, slower now, not intimate anymore. Searching.
Checking.
His jaw tightens.
“What the fuck?”
Cold panic slides through me instantly.
“What?” I ask, lifting my head. “What is it?”
He doesn’t look at me yet.
That scares me more than anything.
His face has gone completely still, all that tenderness draining out of him while his hand withdraws carefully between us.
And when he opens his fingers beneath the shower spray, something tiny, round and black sits against his wet palm..
For one second, neither of us moves.
Water pounds against his shoulders.
Steam curls around his face.
My heart drops so hard I swear I feel it hit the floor.
“What the fuck is that?” I whisper.
Dagger stares at it silently while water pours over both of us.
Then I watch something change across his face.
Recognition.
Not fully, but enough.
Enough that pure rage suddenly floods his expression so fast it almost startles me backward.
His jaw clenches hard enough I hear his teeth grind.
The tiny tracker shakes slightly between his fingers.
“No.”
The word comes out barely above a whisper.
But somehow more terrifying than yelling.
Confusion slams through me.
“Dagger—”
Then his eyes lift toward me.
And I swear I physically feel the exact second something clicks inside his head.
Horror. Rage and betrayal.
All at fucking once.
My pulse spikes instantly.
Dagger doesn’t answer.
He just storms out of the shower so suddenly water sprays across the bathroom floor while he grips the tracker hard enough his knuckles turn white.
“Dagger!”
He yanks a towel off the rack violently and disappears into the hallway dripping blood and water everywhere.
My heart starts pounding.
Fast.
Wrong.
Panic crawls instantly up my spine while I stumble after him grabbing another towel around myself.
“Dagger what the fuck is happening?”