Chapter 14-Daniela
Something about the way he says it—the way he calls me Sweetheart like it’s a promise, not just a name—breaks me.
And just like that, I shatter, pleasure rolling through me like a wave I’ve been holding back for years.
He licks me through every tremble, slow and patient, his big hands stroking my thighs as he works me down from the high.
He doesn’t stop until I’m boneless, shaking, and gasping for breath.
Then he’s moving—deliberate, gentle—grabbing one of the throw pillows from the couch and rolling me over, guiding me with those steady hands.
He turns my face gently, so I’m looking to the side, my hands pillowing me.
Then, he lifts my hips so I’m on my knees and slides the pillow beneath my stomach, elevating me just enough, and the shift makes me shiver all over again.
Excitement tingles down my spine, crackling like electricity under my skin.
My breath hitches as his palms smooth over my back, to my waist, and over my ass, steadying me, anchoring me.
He’s careful but sure, a big man with surprising gentleness, guiding me exactly where he wants me.
He takes my hips in his hands—those huge hands that look like they were made to hold me—and I feel him behind me.
The heat of his body.
The brush of his thighs against the back of mine.
The head of his cock sliding across my slick entrance but not penetrating. Not yet.
“Dani,” he says, my name a growl and a prayer all at once.
His breath skims my neck, making goosebumps rise.
Then he lines himself up with my slick, needy entrance, and the anticipation alone makes my whole body clench.
I can feel him there. Waiting.
I don’t know if I’m ready.
But I want it.
God, I want him.
Excitement tingles through my body.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just presses the head of his body against me, the heat of him searing where I’m already so sensitive it hurts.
My breath catches.
My lips part.
My entire body braces and melts all at once.
“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. “That’s it, Sweetheart.”
His voice. That voice.
It wraps around me like velvet and gravel and fire.
I obey. I breathe.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he starts to push in.
My fingers curl into the rug. I don’t realize I’ve made a sound until he groans behind me.
Not just from the feeling of it.
But from the intimacy. The depth.
It’s not just about bodies.
It’s about the way we fit.
About how right this feels.
Like maybe this was never supposed to be casual.
“Fuck,” he hisses, holding himself still when he’s all the way in. “Why do you always feel so fucking good? Just like heaven.”
I let out a shuddering breath, and I believe him.
Because I feel it too.
The stretch. The closeness. The overwhelming heat.
He leans forward, his chest brushing against my back, and his lips find the shell of my ear.
“You okay?” he asks, voice raw.
I nod. “Better than okay.”
I tilt my hips back, seeking more, and hear him curse again.
“Yeah?” he rasps. “Then hold on, Dani. 'Cause I’m not gonna last long. Not with you like this.”
He starts to move.
Each thrust controlled, careful, reverent.
And I can’t stop shaking.
From pleasure. From emotion. From everything I’ve kept bottled up since the first time he touched me.
He holds me like I’m breakable.
And he’s loving on me like I’m his.
I don’t know what’s going to happen when we go back to Consequence.
But in this moment, in this little snowy cabin with firelight dancing on the walls—I belong to him. To Hudson “Tank” Jackson.
And maybe—maybe he belongs to me, too.
His strokes are so deep.
I feel him everywhere.
My eyes flutter, unable to stay open under the weight of everything he’s giving me.
My chest heaves as he drives into me with unwavering purpose, and my whole body quivers—like I’ve been reduced to one giant, exposed nerve ending.
I come again with a cry that melts into his name, and only then does he let go, groaning into the curve of my shoulder as his body jerks against mine in release.
“Oh, fuck, Sweetheart. You sucked the life from me with your sexy little body,” he murmurs, trying to catch his breath.
I can’t move. But I think I might be smiling.
That smile turns to a gasp when I feel him slide out of me, followed by our combined release.
We’re still tangled, our skin slick with sweat and the last embers of passion, but before I can grimace, he’s back, wiping me gently there with a tissue or a napkin, I think.
Once again, I’m shocked by his tenderness.
He kisses my shoulder and rolls me to my side, maneuvering us so he’s flat on the plush rug beside the fireplace and I’m using him as a pillow.
The flames crackle behind us, casting golden light across his bare chest and softening the sharp lines of his face.
I trace a finger down the edge of his jaw, and he catches it, presses a kiss into my palm.
This feels big.
And my breath hitches.
It’s like he knows and he pulls me close, curling his body around mine like he’s trying to shield me from the world.
One big, rough hand splayed protectively over my belly.
Like I’m something precious.
Like I’m his.
And I know I shouldn’t, but I let myself sink into it.
Just for a second.
“Still think Thanksgiving isn’t your holiday?” I murmur, my voice shaky, breath still shallow.
There’s a teasing lilt to the question, but it’s half-hearted. Because nothing about this feels casual anymore.
He presses another kiss to my temple, soft and warm, protective.
“Not anymore. Now I think it’s my favorite holiday,” he says quietly.
And just like that, something inside me cracks open.
I’m in trouble.
This weekend was supposed to be a stunt.
Just the job.
A promotional shoot with a little forced proximity and a fake story to boost the team’s profile.
But Hudson “Tank” Jackson isn’t just some assignment.
He’s not just some temporary distraction.
This man?
This mountain of a man, with his strong yet gentle hands, and his sometimes cocky, other times shy smile, with his heart in his eyes and pie on his lips?
He’s not the Tank I thought I knew.
And he’s starting to feel like something different from a weekend distraction.
He’s starting to feel like my future.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do about that.