Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
MALLORY
The kiss was nothing like I’d imagined. Not frantic or desperate, but slow and certain. His mouth was firm on mine, tasting of coffee and relief.
I slid my hands from his shoulders into his hair, the strands still damp from his own shower. He made a low sound in his throat, a quiet groan of surrender, and his hands tightened on my hips, pulling me flush against him.
There was no space left between us, not a sliver of light or air, just the solid, undeniable truth of his body against mine. I felt the hard ridge of his erection through my sweatpants—his sweatpants—and a wild, triumphant laugh bubbled up in my chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and searching. “What’s so funny?”
“Everything,” I breathed, tugging his head back down. “Nothing. I’m just happy to be here.” In the moment. With him. The words bubbled up and then got lost in the confusion as his mouth fastened over mine.
We could talk later.
This time, the kiss deepened. His tongue swept against mine, and I was lost. All the months—hell years—of careful distance, of professional boundaries, of telling myself no, we work together, we can’t, dissolved into this single, perfect moment.
There were no jobs, no cases, no unsubs.
There was only Flint, and the way he was kissing me like he’d been starving for this as long as I had.
“Bedroom,” he muttered against my mouth, his hands already sliding under the hem of my shirt—his shirt—his palms hot against my bare skin.
“Too far,” I said, backing him toward the living room.
My hands fumbled with the hem of his own shirt, and I broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head.
I tossed it aside, my eyes roaming over his chest. The dusting of hair, the lean muscle, the scar that cut a pale line across his ribs.
I’d seen him without a shirt before, but never like this. Never with the intention of touching.
“My turn.” He caught my gaze, and a slow, lazy grin spread across his face.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of the sweatpants I was wearing. In one smooth motion, he pushed them down. They pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but a pair of simple black cotton underwear. The cool air of the apartment was a shock against my overheated skin, and I shivered.
“Cold?” he murmured, his gaze tracing over me, hot enough to burn.
“Not even a little bit,” I lied, reaching for his belt. My hands were shaking, but not with fear or adrenaline. This was pure, unadulterated need. I managed to unbuckle it, then pop the button on his jeans. He helped me shove them down, kicking them away along with his boxers.
We stood there in the middle of his living room, naked and bathed in the gray morning light filtering through the windows. It should have felt awkward, or surreal. Instead, it felt right. It felt like coming home.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice rough.
I laughed, a real, uninhibited laugh that felt years overdue. “I’m a disaster. I have a bruise on my arm from where some cop grabbed me, and my hair is a mess.”
“Perfect,” he corrected, stepping closer. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. “You’re perfect.”
And then he was kissing me again, and there was no more room for words.
He walked me backward, his hands roaming over my body, learning my curves, my dips, the places that made me gasp.
The back of my legs hit the sofa, and I tumbled onto it, pulling him down with me.
He settled over me, his weight a delicious anchor, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, arching up to meet him.
“Condom,” he gritted out, his forehead pressed against mine.
“Wallet,” I panted. “Jeans. Pocket.”
He rolled off me, and I watched him fumble for his discarded jeans, his body a masterpiece of masculine grace in the dim light. He came back to me, tearing the foil with his teeth, and I took the condom from him, rolling it on myself. His eyes went dark as he watched, his breath hitching.
“Mallory…”
“Shh,” I whispered, guiding him back to me. “No more talking.”
He entered me in one slow, deep thrust, and we both stilled.
The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect, stretching fullness that was both a relief and an agony.
I’d wanted this for so long, dreamed of it, fantasized about it, and the reality was so much better than anything my imagination had conjured.
He felt like he was made for me, and I for him.
He started to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that stole my breath. I met him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his shoulders, my head thrown back. This wasn’t just sex.
This was a conversation.
Every movement, every gasp, every touch was an answer to a question we’d been asking each other for months.
Yes. I want you. I need you. I’m yours.
The pressure built, a tight, coiling heat in my belly. I could feel him getting closer, too, his movements becoming more erratic, his breathing harsher in my ear.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.
I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze. The intensity I saw there, the raw, unguarded emotion, was my undoing. The coil inside me snapped, and I came apart with a cry that was half his name, half a sob. He followed me over the edge with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering against mine.
We lay tangled together on the sofa, a sweaty, breathless mess, as the city continued to wake up around us.
I could hear the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of a garbage truck, the morning birds.
Normal life. It still felt far away, but this time, it didn’t matter. I was right where I was supposed to be.
Flint shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at me. He brushed a stray strand of hair from my cheek, his touch infinitely tender.
“So,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “We did that.”
“Yep,” I said with a laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and happy inside me. I made a motion of erasing some imaginary line. “We obliterated it.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his gaze softening. “We really did.”
He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, sweet kiss that held none of the frantic desperation of before, but all of the promise. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that this was only the beginning.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were our mingled breathing. Flint was a warm, heavy weight on top of me, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring thump against my ribs. I could have stayed there forever, wrapped in his arms, the scent of us—sex and sweat and Flint—filling my senses.
But Flint, it seemed, had other ideas. He pushed himself up, his muscles flexing in the pale morning light, and the loss of his heat made me shiver. He gave me a crooked, boyish grin that did funny things to my stomach. "Don't move," he said, his voice a low rumble.
He rose, his body lean and powerful, and I watched him walk toward the small bathroom tucked away near the kitchen.
He moved with an easy confidence I’d always admired, but now, seeing him naked, seeing the play of muscle and bone beneath his skin, it was something more.
It was primal. It was mine. He dealt with the condom, and when he came back out, he already seemed to be half-hard again, the jut of his cock rather pretty where it tapped against his thigh.
He didn't give me a chance to do more than admire the view. He leaned down, scooped me up as if I weighed nothing, and tossed me over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. I let out a surprised yelp, which turned into a laugh as his hand came down in a sharp, playful smack on my bare ass.
"Flint!" I gasped, wriggling.
"Behave," he growled, but his tone was full of amusement. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against my hip and the rasp of it just added another sensuous layer to the way he moved.
He carried me into the bedroom, his hand stroking the curve of my bottom, his touch proprietary and possessive in a way that made my blood heat all over again. He dumped me unceremoniously onto his bed, and I bounced once, landing in a tangle of limbs.
He was on me in a second, but not to enter me.
Instead, he settled beside me, his eyes roaming over my body with a hungry, appreciative gaze that made me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet.
He propped his head up on one hand, his other hand tracing a slow, deliberate path from my collarbone down to my navel.
"I've wanted to do this for so long," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over my ribs. "To just… look."
My breath hitched as his thumb brushed the underside of my breast. "You could have," I whispered.
"No," he said, his gaze meeting mine. "I couldn't."
I understood. We hadn't been ready. Or when I had been, he wasn’t. I suspected, perhaps, that when he’d thought of it, I’d been too tied up in other things.
But now, we were here and we were on the same page even if my hair was a damp mess spilled all over his pillows. My cheeks flushed, there was heat there not just from my own emotions but from the burn left behind with his kisses.
I licked my lips, adoring the taste of him.
His touch grew bolder, his fingers circling one nipple, which pebbled instantly at his touch.
He leaned down, his mouth replacing his hand, and I cried out as he closed his lips over the sensitive peak.
He wasn't gentle. He used his teeth, scraping them lightly against my skin before soothing the sting with his tongue.
He lavished the same attention on its twin, until I was writhing beneath him, my hands fisting in his sheets.
"Flint, please," I begged, not sure what I was asking for.