Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
Kane
We take the back exit, slipping past the crowd and the noise. I toss her the helmet, and she catches it with a grin that’s all nerves and adrenaline.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, curls bouncing. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.” I smile. We mount the bike, her arms wrapping tight around my waist, her cheek pressed to my back like she’s trying to memorize the shape of me. I rev the engine, and we take off—fast, reckless, free.
Halfway there, the sky cracks open.
Rain hits hard, sudden and cold, soaking through our clothes in seconds. I don’t slow down. She doesn’t ask me to. The road blurs, headlights smear, and the world narrows to the roar of the engine and the rhythm of her breath against my spine.
By the time we pull up to my off-campus apartment, we’re drenched. Water drips from her hair, her jersey clings like a second skin, and her eyes are wide with something electric.
I kill the engine and turn to her. She’s already pulling off the helmet, shaking out her hair, laughing under her breath like she can’t believe we just did that.
“You’re soaked,” I say.
“So are you,” she fires back.
I grab her hand and lead her inside, boots squelching against the floor, clothes sticking to skin. The apartment’s quiet, dim, the hum of the rain outside wrapping around us like a dare.
She looks at me, breathless. “Now what?”
I step closer, water dripping from my hoodie, heart pounding like it’s still game time.
“Now,” I begin, “I show you what winning really feels like.” A shiver runs through her body, making her tremble. I need to get her heated up first.
I take her hand and pull her toward the bathroom, our soaked clothes leaving a trail of water across the floor. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t hesitate. Just follows, eyes locked on mine like she already knows what I’m about to do.
I twist the shower knob to hot, steam rising instantly, fogging the mirror and curling around us like a promise. Then I step in, pulling her with me, clothes and all.
The water hits hard, scalding, cleansing, real. Her jersey clings tighter, her curls flatten, and her breath catches as the heat wraps around us.
She laughs, startled. “We’re still dressed.”
I press her gently against the tile, hands braced on either side of her. “Not for long.”
She reaches for me, fingers curling into my hoodie, pulling me closer until the space between us disappears. The water pounds around us, but all I feel is her, soft, soaked, trembling with something deeper than adrenaline.
I pull my hoodie over my head, relishing the hot water hitting my back.
Her lips find mine, tentative at first, then deeper, more certain, and I kiss her back like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the taste of her surrender, the way she melts when I claim her.
My hands find the hem of her jersey, dragging it upward, slow and deliberate, and she raises her arms without breaking the kiss, letting me peel it away.
It drops to the floor with a wet thud, and then it’s just skin against skin, her body pressed to mine, heart hammering against my ribs, breath mingling with the steam.
She’s beautiful. More beautiful than I let myself imagine. Not because of her curves or the pale skin that flushes under the heat, but because she’s here. Because she chose this. Because she’s letting me see the parts of her she’s kept locked away from everyone else.
My fingers trail down her spine, and she shivers, arching into me like she’s been waiting for this touch her whole life. I lower my mouth to her neck, tasting the water, tasting her, and she gasps, head falling back, exposing the delicate line of her throat like an offering.
I want to bite her. To mark her. To leave a trail of possession that she’ll feel for days. But I hold back. Because this isn’t just about taking. It’s about keeping.
My hands grip her hips, lifting her slightly, and she wraps her legs around my waist, trusting me to hold her. To keep her safe. To keep her here. I press her against the tile, the cool surface a shock against her heated skin, and she cries out, a sound that’s half pain, half pleasure.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, more demanding, and she meets me with a matching intensity, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her body moving against mine in a rhythm that’s both familiar and new. It’s like we’ve been doing this for lifetimes, and yet every touch feels like a revelation.
The water pounds down on us, a relentless rhythm that mirrors the pounding of my heart, the thrumming of blood through my veins. Steam curls around us, fogging the glass, blurring the edges of everything but her.
I want to stay here forever.
She’s pressed against me, soaked and shivering, but her eyes are steady—locked on mine like she’s daring me to move, to act, to mean it.
I let her down gently, her feet finding the slick tile, and I drop to my knees, not out of urgency, but reverence. My fingers find the waistband of her soaked pants, slow and careful, peeling them away like I’m unwrapping something sacred.
She flinches, just barely, and her hands fly to her stomach like muscle memory. Like she’s done it a thousand times before. Like hiding is safer than being seen.
Anger rises in me, not at her, never at her, but at whatever made her feel like she had to shrink. Like she had to cover up. Like she wasn’t enough.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” I command, voice low but sharp. “Do you understand me?”
She doesn’t answer, eyes flicking away.
I move closer, water still pounding around us, steam curling between our bodies. I reach up and gently pull her chin down, forcing her to look at me.
“You’re fucking stunning,” I breathe. “Every inch. Every curve. Every breath you take.”
Her eyes fill, not with fear, but with something deeper. Something fragile. Like she’s trying to believe me but doesn’t know how.
So I say it again, slower this time. “You are stunning.”
She swallows hard, hands still hovering, unsure.
I take them in mine, guide them down, press them to my chest. “You don’t have to hide from me. Not here. Not ever.”
And in that moment, I swear she lets me see her.
Not just her body.
Her heart.
Her history.
Her hope.
I stand slowly, steam curling around us, water still pounding down like it’s trying to drown the past. Her eyes follow me, wide and uncertain, but she doesn’t step back.
I take her hands, soaked and trembling, and press them to the waist of my jeans.
“Take my jeans off, sunflower,” I murmur, voice low, steady.
She hesitates. Her fingers twitch. “I-I don’t think—“
“Yes, you can.” I unbutton my jeans, slow and deliberate, then take her hand and guide it to the zipper. Her skin is warm from the water, her breath shallow, her eyes wide with something fragile.
“I want you to,” I whisper. “Not because I need it. Because I want you to know you’re allowed.”
She swallows hard, fingers trembling against the metal. I don’t rush her. I don’t push. I just stay close, steady, letting her feel the weight of my presence.
Her hand moves, slow and uncertain, and the zipper slides down with a soft rasp that feels louder than the water pounding around us.
I step out of the denim, soaked fabric pooling at my feet, and I’m standing there bare, vulnerable, hers.
Then her hand flies to her eyes, shielding herself like she’s seen too much or maybe not enough.
“Hey, it’s just me. Look at me.” I gently pull her hand away, my fingers closing over hers. Her eyes are shining, tears and steam blurring the edges of everything.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, voice cracking.
“You don’t have to,” I reply. “You just have to be here. With me.”
“You’re pierced,” she acknowledges, catching another glance at my cock. Her blush deepens if it’s possible.
“And you’re going to love it.”
I lead her out of the shower, grabbing two towels from the rack.
I wrap one around my waist, then gently towel-dry her hair, my fingers massaging her scalp like I’m trying to soothe something deep inside her.
She closes her eyes, leaning into my touch, and I can feel the tension slowly starting to leave her body.
I take her hand and pull her to the bedroom, the dim light from the streetlamp outside casting long shadows across the room.
The bed is unmade, a chaotic tangle of sheets and blankets that looks like it’s been slept in by someone who doesn’t believe in order.
A perfect match for the chaos that’s been swirling between us since the moment we first collided.
I gently push her down onto the bed, and she falls back with a soft gasp, her hair spreading out like a halo around her head. I hover over her, and I can feel the electricity crackling between us, a palpable force that’s both terrifying and exhilarating.
I lower my head, not to her mouth, but to her ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” I whisper. “Just feel. Just let me show you what it’s like to be cherished. To be wanted. To be worshipped.”
Her body trembles beneath me, a silent testament to the war raging within her. The part that wants to run, to hide, to retreat into the safety of her rules and routines. And the part that’s tired of hiding.
I kiss her then, a slow, deliberate exploration that’s less about passion and more about possession.
I’m not just tasting her; I’m claiming her.
I’m mapping the contours of her mouth, memorizing the shape of her lips, learning the rhythm of her breath.
She responds tentatively at first, then with a growing urgency that mirrors my own; her hands come up to tangle in my hair, her body arching into mine like a flower turning toward the sun.
I move down her body, my mouth a trail of fire that leaves a path of quivering flesh in its wake.
I linger on the sensitive skin of her neck, the delicate curve of her collarbone, the soft swell of her breasts.
I take my time, savoring every gasp, every shudder, every whispered sigh that escapes her lips.