Chapter 32 #2
She pivots slowly, eyeing me over her shoulder with that smug little curve to her mouth. “You gonna keep standing there like a stalker, or say what you’re thinking? Or—wait, does brooding make your dick hard?”
I take a step closer. Then another.
“Careful, stray,” I mutter, voice tight. “You’re pushing it.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just tips her head like she’s weighing her next shot. “Pushing what? Your patience or your hard-on? Pretty sure I’ve got both on a tight leash.”
My jaw ticks.
She grins.
One more step and her back hits the edge of the rusted sink, barely clinging to the wall. I crowd her in, close enough to feel her breath shift. Close enough to snap.
“You make me weak,” I say, voice low, rough. “And strong. All at once. It’s fucked.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. But she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move. She holds steady, like she’s daring me to crack. Like she wants me to.
I reach up, grip her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. My fingers press in, firm, dominant. Her lips part, breath hitching, but she doesn’t break.
Instead, she smirks again. “What’s it gonna be then, Reaper?” she murmurs. “You gonna kill me, or fuck me till I scream?”
I lean in until my mouth brushes her ear.
“I don’t know what the hell it is about you,” I growl, “but I know this—every time I look at you, I want to ruin you. Slowly. Completely. And when I’m done, you’ll beg me to do it again.”
She exhales a shaky breath, then smiles and fuck, I know I’ve already lost.
Her eyes flash. Then she kisses me.
Hard. Fast. Like she’s saying goodbye with her mouth. Like she’s not sure she’ll get another chance.
I shove her back against the rusted sink, metal groaning beneath her weight, bolts creaking like they might snap.
Doesn’t matter. If it breaks, it breaks.
She’s already clawing at my shirt, dragging it up over my head like she’s starving.
I get hers off in one sharp tug, lips crashing against hers as my hands slide down her body—rough, hungry, possessive.
“Riot,” she gasps between kisses, eyes glazed, chest heaving.
“Sin, shut up,” I growl, voice dark and low.
Her shorts are already halfway down her thighs when I sink to my knees on the cracked tile. I grip her hips, drag her underwear down with them, and toss both to the floor like they’ve offended me. Her legs are trembling. Her thighs slick and her scent hits me hard.
I don’t waste time.
I bury my face between her legs and feast like I’ve fucking earned it.
Her back arches against the cold sink. Her fingers slam into the metal edge, knuckles white as she moans—raw, loud, and broken.
I grip her thighs, holding them wide, keeping her locked open for me.
My tongue moves like I own her. Every flick, every press, every drag meant to drive her closer to the edge.
She whimpers. “Fuck, Carter—”
I grunt in response and double down, sucking her clit into my mouth and tonguing it mercilessly until she’s shaking. Her heel slams into the wall behind me. She’s close. She’s always so fucking responsive—tight, wild, and wrecked for me.
I fucking love it.
Love the sound of her breaking.
She moans—high, breathless, sharp. Her hands fly to the edge of the table, white-knuckled grip as I devour her, tongue relentless, mouth hot, messy, and unyielding.
She’s not quiet.
She never is.
Her fingers claw through my hair, pulling, anchoring, grounding herself in the only way she knows how—by grabbing onto me like she’ll fucking drown without it, and I let her.
Because if she’s gonna fall?
It’s gonna be on my tongue.
And she does. She writhes and bucks and shakes for me, coming hard on my tongue while I groan like I’m tasting salvation.
I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I unbuckle my jeans. My cock’s out, hard and leaking, and I press the head against her soaked entrance, teasing her just to hear her whimper.
“I’m not done,” I growl.
She smirks, shaky but defiant. “Of fucking course you’re not.”
I’m about to.
One hand fists in her hair, the other digs into her hip as I line up to thrust—and then a knock cracks through the air.
“Riot.” Ghost’s voice, behind the door.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl, forehead dropping to hers as she laughs breathlessly against my mouth.
“Of course,” she mutters.
I groan, yank my pants halfway up, and crack the door.
Ghost’s standing there, tablet in hand. Pale skin lit by the flickering hallway lights.
His jet-black hair is pulled back tight, one side of his head buzzed down clean.
Layers of black tactical gear cling to him like shadows.
His belt’s weighed down with tools, and a headset clings to one ear, wires disappearing into his collar.
His expression’s cool, but there’s a fire in his gray eyes as he thrusts the tablet toward me.
“Race is in two days,” he says. “But you’re gonna want to see this now.”
Sin slides off the sink, legs still shaking, pulling her clothes back on as she joins me at the door. Her eyes flick to the screen, freezing when she sees the footage. Old hospital feed. Her face, younger. Scared. Hooked up to machines.
“Where the fuck did you find this?” I demand.
“Hard drive,” Ghost says, low. “Started running recovery protocols. Some files are corrupted, but more are coming through. They scrubbed her from the system, Riot. Like she was never there.”
Sin’s silent. Jaw tight. But her hand slides into mine, squeezing once.
I look at the screen. Then at her.
Deadmoor’s trying to dig up ghosts.
But we’ve already been through hell.
And we’re still standing.