Chapter 23
GIDEON
Iled Hazel upstairs, her hand small and warm in mine, her steps slower than they'd been an hour ago. The adrenaline that had carried her through breakfast and the porch repair and meeting my brothers was finally draining away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
She needed rest. Real rest, not the fitful half-sleep she'd managed last night while I stayed awake counting her breaths and cataloging every sound the house made.
Our room—I was starting to think of it—was quiet, afternoon light slanting through the salt-streaked windows in bands of gold.
The bed looked inviting in a way that made my own exhaustion press against the back of my eyes.
But I wasn't the one who'd fainted last night.
Wasn't the one whose father had crawled out of prison to haunt me.
"Come on," I said, guiding her toward the bed. "Lie down. I'll be right downstairs if you need me."
She stopped, tugging on my hand. "Stay."
"Hazel—"
"Please." Her green eyes found mine, and I saw something in them that wasn't just exhaustion. Heat. Need. A hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with reclaiming something that had been stolen from her long before last night.
I frowned. "You need to rest."
"I know." She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the lavender from her bath this morning, the faint vanilla of Maude's cooking clinging to her skin. Close enough that her breath ghosted across my throat and made my pulse kick. "But right now, I need something else more."
Understanding hit me a beat later than it should have. "Babe—"
"Don't 'babe' me." Her hands came up to my chest, fingers spreading over my heart. I could feel my pulse hammering against her palm, giving me away. "I'm not fragile, Gideon. I'm tired and scared and angry, but I'm not broken."
"I never said—"
"You're thinking it." She tilted her head back to look at me, chin lifted in that stubborn way I was learning meant she'd already made up her mind. "You're thinking I should rest. That I've been through too much. That I need to be handled carefully."
She wasn't wrong.
"Maybe you do," I said quietly.
"Maybe." Her hands slid up to my shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt with enough force that I felt the bite of her nails through the cotton.
"But maybe what I need is to feel something other than fear.
Maybe I need to remember that my body can do more than shake and faint and have nightmares. "
Christ.
The words hit me like a physical thing—not a plea, but a challenge. A line drawn in the sand between the woman she'd been forced to be last night and the woman she was choosing to be right now.
"Hazel—"
"I want you," she said, the words simple and devastating and absolutely final. "I want to feel you. I want to remember what it's like when someone touches me because they want to, not because they're trying to hurt me or control me or make me small."
My hands found her waist automatically, steadying her even though she wasn't the one who felt unsteady anymore. She was a live wire under my palms, all coiled energy and determination, and I was the one struggling to keep my feet.
"You're sure?"
"Very sure." She rose on her toes, mouth finding mine in a kiss that started soft and turned hungry fast. Her teeth caught my lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make my breath catch. "Please, Gideon. Let me have this."
Let her have this.
Like I could deny her anything when she asked like that, when her body pressed against mine and her breath hitched and her fingers dug into my shoulders like I was the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to shake her loose.
Like I could deny myself this—her wanting me, choosing me, using me to reclaim what Sam Jarrow's shadow had tried to steal.
"Okay," I murmured against her mouth. "But we go slow. You set the pace."
"Deal." She kissed me again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my pulse kick hard and my hands tighten on her waist. "Now get me out of this hoodie."
I pulled back just enough to tug the hoodie over her head, and the T-shirt she wore underneath was thin enough that I could see the outline of her bra, the shadow of her nipples pressing against the fabric.
My mouth went dry. My hands remembered the weight of her breasts from before, the way she'd gasped when I'd touched her, the perfect give of her skin under my palms.
"Beautiful," I said, because it was true and because she needed to hear it and because I needed to say it before I lost the ability to form words.
Her cheeks flushed pink, that gorgeous color that started at her throat and climbed all the way to her hairline. "You say that a lot."
"Because it's true a lot." I traced the line of her collarbone with my thumb, watching goosebumps rise on her skin like a map I was learning to read. "Every time I look at you, actually."
She made a sound—half laugh, half something more desperate—and pulled me toward the bed.
We fell together, her back hitting the mattress, me bracing above her on my forearms so I wouldn't crush her.
For a moment we just looked at each other, breathing hard, the weight of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours pressing down on us like atmosphere before a storm.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi yourself."
She smiled, and it was real, and something in my chest cracked open wider. I kissed her again, slow and deep, taking my time now that we were horizontal and she was under me where I could protect her from everything except the pleasure I was going to give her.
This was supposed to be gentle. Careful. A reminder that touch could be good, that her body was her own, that I would never take more than she wanted to give.
But Hazel had other ideas.
She arched up into me, her hips rolling in a way that made my vision blur at the edges. "Gideon," she said, voice breathy but demanding. "More."
I tried to slow her, my hands gentle on her waist. "Easy. We've got time."
"No." She grabbed my wrists, guiding my hands to her breasts, pressing them there firmly. "I don't want easy. I want you. Now."
Her nipples were hard under my palms, even through the fabric, and the sound she made when I squeezed—soft, needy—nearly undid me. I kissed her neck, her jaw, trying to keep the pace reverent, but she wasn't having it.
"Off," she ordered, tugging at my shirt. I sat back just long enough to yank it over my head, and then her hands were on me, nails raking down my chest, leaving faint trails that burned in the best way.
"Hazel—"
"Shirt," she demanded, pulling at hers. I helped, peeling it away slow, but she sat up and unclasped her bra herself, tossing it aside like it offended her. Her breasts spilled free—full, perfect, nipples tight and begging. I groaned, leaning down to take one in my mouth, tongue swirling gentle.
She threaded fingers in my hair and pulled—hard. "Harder."
I obliged, sucking deeper, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me down until I was grinding against her, the friction through our clothes electric.
"Jeans," she panted. "Off. Both of us."
I tried to go slow, kissing down her stomach, but she wasn't waiting. Her hands fumbled at my belt, yanking it open, shoving my jeans down my hips. I kicked them off, then hers, until there was nothing between us but heat and need.
She flipped us—surprising strength in that small frame—straddling me, her wetness sliding along my length. "My turn," she said, eyes dark with power.
I gripped her hips, trying to guide gentle, but she ground down hard, taking what she wanted. "Hazel—"
"Quiet." She leaned down, biting my lower lip. "Let me."
She reached between us, wrapping her hand around my cock—tight, sure strokes that had me thrusting up involuntary. "This," she said, positioning me at her entrance. God, that stroking. "Inside. Now."
I tried one last time. "Slow—"
"No." She sank down, taking me inch by inch, her heat enveloping me until I was buried deep. We both groaned. She paused, adjusting, then started moving—riding me hard, hips rolling, breasts bouncing with each thrust.
Beautiful. Graphic. Her controlling the pace, the depth, the everything.
I surrendered, hands on her ass, letting her use me.
She stopped suddenly, and I thought something was wrong.
But she surprised me again by flashing a devilish smile, dismounting me, and slithering down so we were still making eye contact, and her hand was wrapped around my cock.
With a groan of pleasure she licked me up and down, sending me down the rabbit hole of fire.
When she felt like I was close, she took the head in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it slow, milking every ounce of restraint out of me.
Fuck.
Then she was on top of me again, filling herself with my manhood, eyes lit, claiming me.
"Faster," she demanded, nails digging into my chest. I bucked up to meet her, the slap of skin loud in the room.
She came first—hard, clenching around me, cry muffled against my shoulder. I followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a growl.
She collapsed on my chest, satisfied, empowered. "You can get back to work now," she said playfully.
We laughed, the role reversal perfect. I was happy to take orders from her.
I lay there for another moment, her body still draped half over mine, both of us catching our breath.
Her hair was a wild mess, red curls spread across my chest like fire, and her skin was flushed pink from exertion and satisfaction and something deeper—pride, maybe, or relief.
Like she'd just proven something to herself that she'd needed to prove.
She looked happy.