Chapter 10 #3
"Right there," he growls, and pounds into me.
When his teeth sink into my shoulder I come so hard I think I might black out for a second.
He follows immediately, grinding so deep I swear I feel him in my throat, his hand gripping my inner thigh hard enough that tomorrow there'll be purple fingerprints bloomed across the pale skin.
"One more," he says when I whimper that I can't. "Give me one more."
His fingers find my clit again, and when I come this time it's with his teeth in my shoulder and his fingers digging into that same spot on my thigh, marking me, claiming me.
After, he's gentle. Removes the prosthetic again with a soft sigh of relief, then gets a warm cloth, cleans us both carefully. He pulls me against his chest, strokes my hair, tells me how good I was, how perfect, how proud he is of me.
"Was that—did I—" Uncertainty creeps into his voice. "Color?"
"Green," I assure him, pressing a kiss to his chest where his heart still races. "So fucking green. That was exactly what I needed."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I trace the scars on his residual limb gently, feeling him relax under my touch. "All of it. All of you."
He's quiet for a long moment, then: "Stay?"
"Always.”
I fall asleep feeling safe, satisfied, and completely his.
Holt’s gone.
I stretch, feeling that delicious ache everywhere, and smile into the pillow that still smells like him—motor oil and soap and sex. Last night plays through my mind in vivid flashes—every command, every surrender, every perfect moment of trust.
"Morning," I mumble, rolling over to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. The prosthetic is already attached, his jeans covering it, boots laced. He's turned slightly toward me but won't meet my eyes, his whole body rigid, hands clenched on his knees.
His gaze is fixed on my thigh.
I follow his stare down to where a bruise blooms across the pale skin—deep purple-blue, almost black at the center, the perfect shape of his fingers spread wide. Four distinct marks where he gripped me, a thumbprint on the inner thigh.
"Oh." I touch it gently, pressing to feel the sweet ache. "Battle trophy."
He flinches so hard the bed shakes.
"Holt, it's fine. It's just a bruise. Happens with rough sex—"
"I hurt you." His voice sounds dead, empty of everything that made it his.
"You didn't hurt me." I sit up, reach for him, but he jerks away like I'm holding a knife. "Holt, look at me."
When he finally does, his face is gray. He looks at me like he's seeing a ghost. Like he's seeing someone else entirely. Like he's seeing Evan's handiwork.
"I marked you. I—" He stands abruptly, the movement awkward as his prosthetic catches on the rug. "This was a mistake."
"What?" The word comes out cracked. "Holt, no. Last night was—"
"I can't do this."
I scramble out of bed, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on, needing armor for whatever this is. "You can't just—we need to talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." I move toward him but he backs away, his prosthetic making him stumble slightly, and that small vulnerability in his retreat makes this worse somehow. "Holt, please. Tell me what's wrong. The bruise? It's nothing, it doesn't even hurt—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't make excuses for—" He cuts himself off, jaw working like he's going to be sick. "I need to go."
"Go? Go where?"
But he's already moving, grabbing his keys from the dresser with shaking hands, his jacket from the chair.
His gait is uneven, rushed, like he can't get away fast enough.
Not just leaving the bed but leaving the loft.
I follow him to the door, bare feet on cold floor, desperate and confused and my chest feeling like it's caving in.
"Holt, stop. Please. Talk to me."
He pauses at the door, hand on the knob, knuckles white. Won't turn around. "I'm sorry."
Then he's gone, the door closing with a quiet click that sounds final.
I stand there in his shirt that falls to mid-thigh, staring at the door, trying to understand what just happened.
How something so perfect, so right, turned into him running.
My fingers find the bruise again, pressing harder this time until it aches properly, trying to make sense of his face when he saw it.
The loft feels too big suddenly. Too empty. Too quiet. The bed still wrecked from last night, the couch where we started, the prosthetic's knee pad left behind on the nightstand in his rush to leave—small evidence of how completely he'd let me in, and how completely he's shut me out now.
I sink onto the couch—the same couch where everything started last night—and try to make sense of it.
But nothing fits. Not his gray face when he saw the bruise.
Not the way he looked at me like I was broken.
Not the way he said "mistake" like last night wasn't the most honest thing we've ever done.
The worst part is I don't understand. I gave him permission.
Asked for it. Begged for it. And it was perfect—the trust, the surrender, the safety of letting go with someone who would catch me.
The way he worked with his body's limitations, found positions that worked, never made it feel like something to hide or be ashamed of.
And now he's gone, and I'm alone in a loft that smells like us, wearing his shirt, with a bruise on my thigh that feels less like a wound and more like a promise he's too scared to keep.