31. Nell
Boomerang shrieks behind me, hot on my heels like he’s chasing down guilt itself. Like he knows what I did.
“Stop it,”
I choke out, swiping at tears and quickening my pace before I trip over him. I barely make it two steps before I slam into something solid.
Not something. Someone.
Cameron.
Still dressed in his operative gear—black vest, chest rig, face shadowed with the balaclava and concern. He arches a brow, and even though I can only see his eyes I know he’s not impressed, like I’ve just walked into a fight I wasn’t invited to.
Exactly what I need right now.
“Excuse me,”
I mutter, venom laced with shame. I push past him, trying to pretend I’m not seconds from falling apart.
His voice cuts through me.
“What happened?”
He’s already scanning the hallway behind me, alert, one hand twitching like muscle memory’s preparing for violence.
“Nothing… I just…”
My voice breaks before the sentence even finds its shape.
“Ugh. Never mind.”
My thoughts are a blur, spinning too fast to hold. Regret gnaws at my insides like I deserve this unravelling. Because maybe I do.
I went looking for answers, and now I’m the one who feels haunted.
“Why are you crying, Nell?”
His voice is rough with concern. A gloved hand lifts to my face, thumb brushing away a tear that betrays more than I’m ready to give.
But he can’t wipe this away—not really.
Because we both know the truth.
I’m not the girl he wants. Just the shadow filling space until she returns.
A placeholder. Always have been and always will be.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words rip from my throat before I can stop them, brittle and panicked.
And then I’m spiralling.
My chest tightens, the air thick like it’s turned on me. His touch lingers like heat branded into my skin, and his scent—leather, steel, memory—is everywhere.
It wraps around me like a noose.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
And still, he’s watching me like he doesn’t understand what he’s done—how easy it is for someone like him to drown someone like me without even trying.
Before I even register what’s happening, he’s there—arms braced on either side of me, body caging mine in, his face so close I could breathe him in if I wasn’t already suffocating.
My heart jackhammers in my chest, every thud louder than the last. I can’t catch my breath. Can’t slow the freefall.
“Breathe, Nell.”
His voice is low, almost brushing skin—calm where mine is chaos. The heat of him crowds my senses, it’s too much, too close.
He needs to back off. Needs to stop making me feel like this.
“I said leave me alone!”
I snap, the words shaking with something unhinged. I shove him—hard, again and again—my fists slamming into his chest in a frenzy that feels more like survival than rage.
It’s not that he doesn’t fight back—it’s that he doesn’t move.
Solid as a damn boulder. Unflinching at my attempts to put some distance between us.
He takes every hit like I’m weightless.
And it breaks something in me.
I keep pushing, keep thrashing, even as my limbs start to falter, the fire in my veins burns out and the sobs rise to take its place.
Then it hits—like a wave I can’t outrun.
Tears streak down my cheeks, catching at the corners of my mouth, tightening my throat until I’m choking on them.
Because I’m not in control. Not anymore.
And he’s still standing there.
Still there.
Watching me fall apart.
He’s so close, I can feel the heat of him before I see him move.
The moment my fury stutters—just long enough to drag in a breath—he presses forward, one hand sliding up to wrap around my throat. Not tight. Just enough pressure to freeze my thoughts, to remind me who holds the reins.
I flinch. Not from pain, but from memory—body bracing for a strike that never lands.
But instead of violence, it’s heat that follows.
He rips off the balaclava, hair mussed and sweat clinging to his skin from tonight’s activities. Then his mouth crashes against mine—harder, hungrier than the other night. There’s no hesitation. No apology. Just need.
Teeth rake over my lower lip, a sharp bite tempered with the threat of something darker. Something I couldn’t handle even if I wanted to.
And God help me, part of me wants to.
But I can’t. Not now. Not when every inch of this is a warning dressed as a kiss.
“We can’t,”
I say, firm—commanding, or at least trying to be.
But he doesn’t even flinch.
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Nell.”
Then he’s on me—his body pressing mine back into the wall, one hand anchoring me in place while his mouth begins its slow, maddening descent to my throat. The contact is rough. Unapologetic. Enough to sting.
But what hurts more is what I have to say next.
“I’m not Kyla, Cameron.”
The words break between us, soft and sharp all at once.
“And I never will be.”
That stills him.
His gaze lifts to mine—and there’s something volatile behind it. Not anger. Not exactly. Something darker. Protective. Possessive.
“I don’t want to be someone’s second choice,”
I whisper.
“I want to be chosen. For once.”
My heart hammers in my chest as a maddening silence spreads between us. For a moment, I think I’ve broken it. Broken us. I expect him to back off. Walk away. Let the truth speak louder than the heat.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he throws me completely.
He grips me, tight and sudden, and hauls me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. Like the conversation never even happened.
I yelp—part shock, part something else—and his pace is unrelenting, every step heavy with intent. Like I’m not a question he’s considering. But an answer he’s already chosen.
“Where are you taking me?”
I snap, though the edge in my voice cracks beneath the pulse pounding in my throat.
Maybe he’s done playing nice. Maybe he’s taking me to lock me in, to cage the chaos I keep dragging out of him. Maybe this is how he plans on shutting the temptation away for good.
But he doesn’t.
He pushes open his door—the room I just fled from—and strides inside like he owns every inch of the tension between us.
Then he drops me onto the bed. Not gently. Not roughly. Just deliberately. Like I belong here.
My breath catches.
Because no matter how fast I ran, I’ve somehow ended up right back at the epicentre—the place where every secret, every sin, waits just beneath the surface.
The mattress dips under my weight, the echo of impact still pulsing through me. I scramble upright, breath hitching, but he’s already there—standing over me, gaze dark, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something that wants out.
“I didn’t bring you back here to argue,”
he says, voice low and rough at the edges.
He steps closer.
I should move. I want to move. But my limbs won’t cooperate—caught between fight and fascination.
“You think I haven’t noticed it?”
he murmurs, removing the gloves to allow his fingers to brush along my jaw—barely there.
“The way you look at me like you want to run… and stay.”
My heart stutters, and suddenly he’s on the bed with me, kneeling—solid, immovable, close enough to steal air from my lungs.
“I know you’re not her,”
he says, voice raw with something dangerously close to reverence.
“You’re not Kyla. And I don’t want you to be.”
His eyes hold mine, steady, like he’s trying to burn the truth into me.
“I want you, Nell.”
He presses closer, the air between us heavy with things neither of us should be feeling.
“And God help me… but I will have you.”
And just like that, the tension shifts. From defiance to gravity. From resistance to something far harder to escape.
He reaches for my wrist—not to restrain, but to anchor. Holding me here in the moment. Waiting. Daring me to pull away. His hands are rough as they yank the joggers from my hips, laced panties slipping away with them. They land somewhere on the floor, discarded without care, because right now his focus is all-consuming.
He looks at me like he’s starving—and I’m the only thing that could ever satisfy him.
Before I can summon a breath, let alone a protest, he drops low, and the air shifts. There’s nothing gentle about the way he claims me with his tongue this time. It’s all edge and hunger, his mouth relentless, dragging involuntary sounds from my lips while I twist beneath him, torn between surrender and stubbornness.
His eyes never leave mine.
Watching. Daring. Undressing me even further—layer by layer—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and everything I swore I wouldn’t feel.
And God help me, I feel everything.
The first moan he pulls from me is guttural—torn from someplace primal I didn’t know I’d buried. The second is feral, jagged and unrestrained, echoing off the walls like a confession.
I stop fighting.
No more pushing him away. No more pretending I don’t want this.
Instead, I’m dragging him closer—fingers tangled in his hair, clutching him like I’ll shatter if he lets go. Like if he stops now, I’ll come to my senses and lose this madness that’s somehow the only thing keeping me grounded.
“This is what I want, Nell,”
he growls, voice thick with hunger.
“You—dripping all over my mouth.”
Holy shit.
It detonates something inside me—shame, want, euphoria, all colliding at once. My mind goes static. My body answers before I can catch up.
There’s no coming back from this.
No reason left, no brakes. Just the dizzying descent into pleasure I know will unmake me.
“And I want you inside me. Now.”
The words leave my mouth like a challenge, breathless and reckless.
And God help me, he doesn’t flinch.
He’s still in full gear—combat straps, black fabric clinging to every defined line—and I don’t want him out of it. There’s something devastatingly raw about the way he looks right now, like sin wrapped in strategy.
I think I’m in love. No joke.
I pull him to me, hands in his hair, pleading without words—only pressure, only need. He kisses me again, deeper this time, like we’re trying to undo each other from the inside out.
My fingers move instinctively, bold and shaking, tugging down at his fly, and when I have him in my grip, I run my palm up and down his shaft. There’s no finesse in it. No patience. Just want, raw and ravenous.
He groans against my mouth, and the sound goes straight to my spine.
He’s leaking already, pre-cum slick in my hand, which only encourages my hold.
He wants me. He really wants me.
His eyes flick toward the wardrobe—the one sheathed in shadows and secrets—and then back to me, heat simmering just beneath the surface.
“I’m going to take you in there soon,”
he murmurs, his hips rolling into my touch in a rhythm that dares me to pull away.
“And when I do… you’re going to feel things no one’s ever taught you to crave.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Because they aren’t just a warning.
They’re a vow.
I don’t have time to think ahead to that moment though, right now he’s suffocating me in lust. And there’s nothing more I want right now than him inside me.
He looms over me, all muscle and momentum, his presence swallowing the space between us. Then, without a word, he slips an arm beneath both my thighs and lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing.
My breath hitches.
In three strides, he carries me across the room, every step purposeful, until my back meets the cool wall at the far end of his bedroom.
He pushes inside me, already soaked in arousal and need. But my God is he big. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.
He’s filling me, and more. Stretching me open, moulding me to fit him.
And when his hips start working, pulling back and slamming into me again I’m lost to him.
It’s hot, messy, and completely raw. And I love it.
Desire coils low in my belly—hot, fast, building with each second until it’s near unbearable. I’m on the edge of something I can’t name, or stop, and all I can do is hold on.
I’m gasping. He’s grunting. The air between us slick with heat and noise—and from somewhere outside the door, Boomerang’s meow cuts through it all, high-pitched and distressed.
Like he thinks I’m being hurt.
And maybe I am.
Just not in any way I’d ever ask to stop.
He drops me to my feet with no warning, no time to steady myself. Before I can blink, he spins me, fast and decisive, like he’s reclaiming control of every breath I’ve stolen.
One hand finds my hair, fisting it tight. The other trails lower, staking claim before thought can catch up to sensation, he spreads my ass cheek.
The wall’s cool against my front. His body’s fire against my back.
“That sweet little cunt is mine now, Nell.”
His words rake across my skin like hot coal—slow, searing, impossible to ignore. Goosebumps ripple in their wake, rising against the sheen of sweat clinging to my body. Every syllable brands me, igniting something primal.
“Shut up and fuck me Stalker boy,”
I pant, hooking my arm around his neck, grinding into him like I own him.
Because right now I do.
He bites down on my neck, sliding back inside me with ease now he’s moulded my body to accept him.
He’s punishing with his thrusts now, forcing me against the wall with each one. But he keeps my head pinned to his chest by my hair, claiming every inch of skin he can reach—sucking, biting, branding.
His other hand reaches down, exploring the junction between my thighs, rolling my clit until my knees give way. But he doesn’t let me fall.
His arms lock around me, anchoring me exactly where he wants me. There’s no room to escape, no space for thought. Only heat. Only him.
His grip isn’t cruel, but it’s absolute—commanding my body with nothing more than presence.
“Are you going to cum for me?”
He’s challenging me, but his fingers are teasing, building rhythm and then stopping again in some sort of twisted game.
“Mmm hmm,”
I moan, my body tensing in response to his words.
“Go on then trouble, show me how good you can be.”
Christ, he could tell me to jump off a cliff at this point and I’d do it.
My body is in no mood to fight, and when he rolls my swollen clit through his fingers again, railing into me so hard I see stars, I give in.
In one wild, hot rush I brace against the bone rattling orgasm that ripples through me entirely. My channel grips him like a vice, demanding him to stay exactly where he is, and for a moment, I forget everything.
My head tips back against him, unbidden, spine arching as if summoned. His grip loosens from my hair—only to glide lower, his hand wrapping around my throat with measured control.
Thumb and fingers spread, guiding my neck into a slow, deliberate stretch—exposing me.
Claiming me.
Every nerve ignites under his touch, but it’s not just possession, it’s precision. He doesn’t force. He positions.
When he drives into me again, after my body releases him from its grip, he shows no mercy. No care that I’ve just exploded all over his cock. He’s driving his point home—I’m his now.
I can feel it in the way he moves—how close he is, chasing his release with every beat.
But my body’s already winding itself tight again.
His fingers glide with precision to my breast, clamping down on my nipple until it stings. It stings—but in that addictive, toe-curling way that blurs the lines between pain and pleasure, making me crave more even as I flinch.
His thumb finds my chin, tilting my face back to his with quiet command. His hand spans the column of my throat and the curve of my jaw, grounding me—claiming me—with nothing but touch.
And just like that, I’m no longer bracing against the burn.
I’m begging for it.
“I’m going to cum again,”
I pant into his mouth. He smirks against my lips—lazy and deliberate—the kind of knowing curve that says he planned this. Every move. Like he’s playing a game he’s already won.
And I’m only just realising the rules.
“Such a good little troublemaker,”
he teases.
Together, we shatter in a euphoric wave, bodies locked in the kind of rhythm that drowns thought and blurs every line.
He drives into me with a low, guttural growl, like the sound is torn from somewhere deep and primal. And I cling—fingers digging into his back, chasing the high as it crashes over me.
“You’re on birth control, right?”
My mouth goes dry.
I was—right up until about a week ago.
Funny how self-preservation slipped so easily down the list of priorities when chaos started wearing his face.
“Umm …”
“Fuck.”