Chapter 8 - Rosie
"I should probably go. Let you have your room back."
What the fuck am I saying?
I don't want to leave. Don't want to go back to a guest room or the common area or anywhere that isn't right here having the first real conversation I've had in… God, I don't even know how long. Before my ex. Before the warehouse. Before everything turned to shit.
But I can't stay here.
If I stay here, if I keep talking to him, keep smiling at his brutal honesty, keep getting closer to this massive, tattooed man who somehow makes me feel safer than I've felt in years, I'm going to do something stupid. Something I'll regret. Like kissing him.
And I can't kiss him.
I just told him and everyone that I hate men.
All men. Every single one. I threw that declaration out there like a shield, like armor, like something that would protect me from ever being hurt again.
And now I'm sitting in Brick's room, wearing his cut, wanting to press my mouth against his and see if his lips are as firm as they look.
This is insanity.
But Brick is different. Special. He's not like any man I've ever known.
There's no pretense with him. No facade.
No nice-guy persona hiding a monster underneath.
He just is. Brutally honest about his violence, about his darkness, about liking things most people would lie about.
He admitted he likes breaking bones and didn't apologize for it.
Didn't try to soften it or make it palatable.
He's exactly what he claims to be.
And that honesty is the sexiest thing I've ever encountered.
Why couldn't I have met him before? Before I wasted two years on a man who smiled while planning my destruction? Before I learned that trust is a weapon people use against you? Why does the universe have this cruel sense of timing? Showing me what I could have had after I've already been destroyed?
"Don't go," Brick says.
I look at him. He's still sitting on the edge of his bed, relaxed but watchful. Like he's giving me space to decide while making his preference clear.
"I should," I say, but I don't move.
"Why?"
"Because if I stay—" I stop myself. Can't finish that sentence. Can't admit what I'm thinking.
"Stay," he says. "For a little while. If you want."
I want.
God, I want so badly it hurts.
I cross the room and sit next to him on the bed. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Closer than we've ever been. I can smell him now: motor oil, leather and clean male sweat. It should repulse me. Should trigger every defense mechanism I've built in the last week.
Instead, it makes me want to lean closer.
"You know," Brick says, his voice low, "one day you'll look back at this and it'll be nothing but an awful story to tell people. The worst week of your life that you survived and moved past."
I chuckle. Can't help it. "I don't think I'll be sharing this with anyone besides a psychologist."
He chuckles back, the sound rumbling through his chest. "That's also a nice decision."
We're both laughing now. Real laughs. Not polite or forced or performative. Just genuine amusement at the absurdity of trying to make trauma into dinner party conversation.
And I can't help but think… When was the last time I felt this happy? This free?
Not with my ex. Never with him. Every laugh was calculated, every smile checked to make sure it was the right one, every moment of joy measured against whether it would set him off.
But here, now, with this man who breaks bones for a living and reads books about war, I'm laughing. Actually laughing.
I look at him.
He looks back.
And for a moment, nothing else exists. Not the warehouse. Not the trauma. Not my declarations about hating all men. Just this, this bubble where it's only us, the rain and the possibility of something I don't have words for yet.
I watch in slow motion as he closes his eyes and leans toward me.
This is happening.
This is actually happening and I have no idea if it's the right time or the right decision or anything resembling smart, but it feels right. It feels like the first right thing in forever.
I close my eyes too and wait.
His lips meet mine and—
Fuck.
His mouth claims mine like he's been thinking about this as much as I have, like he's been holding back and finally stopped. I kiss him back just as desperately, my hands finding his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt like I'm drowning and he's the only solid thing left.
He lies back, pulling me with him. His hand covers the whole side of my face. So big, so warm, and he never stops kissing me. Never stops moving his mouth against mine like he can't get enough.
I've never been kissed like this.
Never had someone kiss me with this much raw passion, this much desire.
My ex kissed me like I was an obligation.
Like something he had to do to get what he actually wanted.
But Brick kisses me like I'm the entire point.
Like nothing else matters except this moment, my mouth and the way we fit together.
Is this what meeting your soulmate feels like?
I never believed in soulmates. Thought it was bullshit people told themselves to feel special.
And I definitely don't believe in it now, not after everything.
But Brick makes me want to believe. Makes me think maybe there's someone out there who's perfectly matched to you, who understands you without trying, who makes you feel safe and desired and real all at once.
When he finally stops kissing me, we're both gasping. Lying beside each other on his bed, breathing hard, staring at each other like we can't quite believe what just happened.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice rough. "If I crossed a line. I just… I was afraid you'd leave tomorrow and I had to… I had to go for it."
"You didn't do anything wrong," I tell him. My hand is on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palm. "I liked it."
My eyes drift down his body. Down the broad expanse of his chest, his stomach, lower—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Brick is fucking bricked. He's got a massive erection straining against his jeans, so obvious there's no hiding it. So big I can see the outline through the denim.
And he's right. Tomorrow I'll call my family.
Tomorrow I might leave. Might go home or disappear or do whatever comes next.
But tonight, tonight is mine. Tonight I can do whatever the fuck I want.
Pour all these emotions: the fear, the anger and desperate need to feel something good, into this moment with him.
I place my hand on his cock, gripping it through his jeans.
His eyes go wide. "What are you doing?"
"What I want," I say, squeezing slightly. "Should I stop?"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "Fuck no."
"Good. Then I'm going to do the same."
His hand moves to my breast, cupping it through the shirt, thumb finding my nipple and circling it. I gasp. Arch into his touch. My hands fumble with his zipper, getting it down, reaching inside.
He uses his free hand to help, shoving his jeans down his hips. His cock springs free—thick, hard and fucking huge. I wrap my hand around it and he groans, the sound raw and desperate.
I start stroking him. Slow at first, learning the shape of him, the weight. He pinches my nipple in response, rolling it between his fingers until I'm moaning into his shoulder.
His other hand slides down my stomach, into the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. Over my panties. He presses against me through the fabric and I nearly come apart right there.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked."
I'm a bit embarrassed. I'm dripping, can feel it soaking through the panties I grabbed from the pile Ivy left, but his voice is full of approval, not disgust.
"You're rock hard," I shoot back. "And big."
He pushes my panties aside and slides a finger inside me. I cry out, gripping him harder.
"That's it," he murmurs against my neck. "Take what you need."
I'm grinding against his hand. He's thrusting into mine. We're both grunting, moaning, stealing kisses in between. Neither of us wants to be the first one to stop. Neither of us wants this to end.
I'm close. So fucking close. His fingers work inside me and I'm right there, right on the edge—
He slows down. Pulls his fingers out. "I want to fuck you."
"Please," I hear myself say.
He moves fast. Sits up and strips his shirt off in one motion. I do the same, pulling the borrowed shirt over my head, unhooking the sports bra. He stares at my breasts like he's never seen anything more perfect.
Then he's pulling my pants and panties down, tossing them aside. Getting between my legs, his cock nudging against my wet entrance. Teasing. Taunting.
"Please," I say again. "Put it inside."
He does.
He's so fucking big, stretching me, filling me completely. I wrap my legs around his waist and he starts to move. Slow at first, letting me adjust to his size, then faster. Harder.
"Fuck," I moan. "Brick—"
"I know," he says, his voice strained. He grabs my hips, pulling me harder against each thrust. "You feel so fucking good."
He thrusts into me and I meet him stroke for stroke. No pretense. No performance. Just two people fucking because they want to, because it feels good, because tomorrow might change everything and tonight is all we have.
His hands grip my thighs, pushing them wider, opening me up more. The angle changes and he hits something deep inside that makes me grip the sheets.
"There," I gasp. "Right there—"
He keeps hitting that spot. Over and over. Relentless. His pace increases, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with our combined moans. I can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in my belly.
"You're gonna come for me," he says. Not a question. A statement. "I can feel you getting tighter."
"Yes, fuck, yes—"
He pounds into me harder, faster, chasing my orgasm like it's his mission. His grip on my thighs is bruising and I love it. Love the marks he'll leave. Love the evidence that this happened, that I chose this.
I come with a scream that I barely recognize as my own voice. My pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing, dragging him deeper. He fucks me through it, prolonging it, making it last until I'm shaking and gasping and completely wrecked.
But he doesn't stop.
He pulls out and I whimper at the loss. Then his hands are on my hips, flipping me over onto my stomach.
"On your knees," he orders.
I obey. Get on my hands and knees, ass in the air, presenting myself to him. I hear him groan behind me.
"Fuck, look at you," he says. His hand runs down my spine, over the curve of my ass. "So fucking perfect."
Then he's pushing back inside. He fills me completely and I moan into the pillows. He starts fucking me from behind. Harder. Faster. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he pounds into me. Each thrust drives me forward, makes me grab the sides of the pillow as I scream into it.
"Take it," he grunts. "Take all of it."
I do. I take everything he gives me. The brutal pace, the depth, the way he owns my body completely in this moment. One of his hands moves to my hair, gripping it, pulling my head back. Not painfully. Just possessively.
"This what you needed?" he asks, his voice rough. "Needed to be fucked like this?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
"Say my name."
"Brick—"
"Louder."
"Brick!" I scream it. Don't care who hears. Don't care about anything except the way he's making me feel. Used and desired.