Chapter 31
Chapter
Thirty-One
FALLON
I groan and try to turn onto my other side, desperate to uncover something—anything—because I'm sweating. But I can't move. A strong arm holds me in place, locked around my middle like iron forged specifically to cage me.
Then the memories flood back in disjointed fragments—I'm in Kade's bed. In his house.
I slowly open my eyes, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. His tattooed arm wraps around me, holding me so tight to his chest I can barely draw breath. His leg is wedged between mine, tangling us together completely—possessive even in sleep.
I almost don't want to move. I've never been held like this before—like someone's afraid I'll disappear if they let go for even a second. Like I'm something important that needs protecting. But I really have to pee, and my throat feels like sandpaper scraped raw.
I lay there for a few more minutes anyway, savoring the unfamiliar sensation of being in his arms. Safe. Protected. Wanted. All the things I stopped believing I deserved somewhere between my wedding day and the first time Daniel's hand connected with my face.
Memories from last night come flooding back in vivid detail.
After we had sex—after he made me come so hard I saw stars—we showered together.
His hands were gentle washing away evidence, achingly careful as he soaped my sensitive skin.
My back pressed against cold tile while he kissed water droplets from my shoulders, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat.
Then he ordered us takeout like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like I belonged there in his bed, in his space, wrapped in his clothes.
We laid tangled together watching some action movie I couldn't possibly name now—pizza and beer and his fingers playing with my hair while I pretended to follow the plot.
All I could focus on was the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the rumble of his occasional laugh vibrating through his chest.
Then we went to bed. But we didn't get much sleep.
He fucked me three more times—once in the shower with my hands braced against slippery tile, once pressed into the mattress with his weight holding me down, once with me riding him until my thighs screamed.
I lost count of my orgasms somewhere around the third round, body turned liquid and desperate and utterly wrecked under his hands.
Then we fell asleep like this—tangled up and impossible to separate, breathing synchronized.
I start trying to wiggle free without waking him, moving with the careful precision I've learned over three years of avoiding Daniel's temper.
First I free my legs, slowly extracting them from between his with millimeter precision.
Then I ease his arm away from my middle, inch by careful inch, hardly daring to breathe.
I scoot toward my side of the bed—except it's not my side, is it? This isn't my bed. Not my house. Not my life. Just borrowed moments stolen from the wreckage of the life I actually have.
Almost free.
Kade makes this sweet sound—half whimper, half protest—and rolls over, wrapping his arm around me again. Pulling me back against his chest like a kid clutching a teddy bear he's afraid someone will steal. The unconscious gesture makes something crack open inside my ribs.
I lay still for a second, torn between my bladder's increasingly urgent demands and the unfamiliar warmth of being held like this. Like I matter. Like losing me would hurt.
Then I work my way out again, more determined this time. More desperate for the bathroom than his unconscious affection.
When I finally stand up, pain hits me like a physical wall.
Oh my god. My muscles are so sore—thighs screaming, core aching, even my hips protesting from being spread so wide for so long.
I walk slowly toward the bathroom, every step a reminder of exactly how thoroughly he claimed my body last night.
How many times I let him. How many times I begged him for more.
On the way I see my panties on the floor, abandoned in the frantic rush to get naked. I grab them and his shirt too—the one he was wearing yesterday that smells like spun sugar and him. Evidence of where I've been. What I've done.
What I keep choosing to do even though I know better.
I sit on the toilet and pee for what feels like forever, relief profound. Then I pull my panties on and his shirt while still sitting there, dragging soft cotton over sensitized skin that feels raw and thoroughly used.
I hiss when I wipe, the gentle touch making me flinch. So sore down there it almost hurts to exist.
I'm too old for that much sex in one night. My body doesn't bounce back the way it did at twenty—doesn't recover from marathon sessions with the resilience of youth.
I flush and stand on slightly unsteady legs, pulling my panties up properly.
At the sink I wash my hands with soap that smells nothing like home, then catch sight of myself in the mirror.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket—wild and tangled from his hands fisting in it repeatedly, from being pressed into pillows and dragged across sheets.
I try to smooth it down with wet fingers, working through the worst knots with patience born of practice.
When I figure it's as good as it's getting without a proper brush, I study my reflection more carefully.
My lips are swollen from kissing. My neck shows the faint shadow of a mark he sucked into my skin.
I look thoroughly fucked and utterly wrecked.
I look alive.
I walk back into the bedroom as quietly as possible, years of creeping through my own house at night making me silent as a ghost.
I look over at Kade, letting myself admire his strong back covered in ink for a long moment. The dragon curves across his shoulder blade, breathing fire down his spine in gorgeous detail.
Then I sneak out of his room, closing the door with careful precision.
I didn't see the rest of the house last night—I was pretty occupied when we stumbled through the door. We never left his room except for the quick trip he made to grab our dinner and drinks from whoever delivered them.
I go down the hall, bare feet silent on hardwood floors. At the bottom of the staircase I turn toward what looks like a living room, then see the kitchen connected to it in one big open concept space. Living, dining, and kitchen all flowing together.
It's so different from the sterile perfection of my house. No staged furniture or decorator-chosen art. Just lived-in comfort and motorcycle magazines and empty beer bottles scattered across the coffee table.
I cross the room on bare feet, floorboards cool beneath my toes. Opening the massive stainless steel fridge, I see it's pretty empty—just beer and more beer and some takeout containers that might be science experiments at this point. Bachelor living at its finest.
Well, I'll just make some water from the fridge, I think, scanning for the dispenser. But I bend down first and pull the drawers open, checking them out of instinct.
"What's up, Teach?"
I hear a familiar voice and shoot up so fast my head spins, vision whiting out for a second.
Ash and the other guy I met—Beck, I think?—both stare at me with huge grins splitting their faces. They're shirtless in low-slung sweatpants, clearly just rolled out of bed themselves.
I'm mortified. I'm half naked standing in their kitchen at what can't be later than five in the morning, and they probably got a very good look at my ass when I bent over in nothing but Kade's shirt and my underwear.
"Hey," I squeak out, trying to pull Kade's shirt down lower with one hand while the other flies up to smooth my disaster of hair.
The shirt barely covers my thighs, riding up with every movement to reveal more leg than appropriate.
"Fallon, right?" The other guy asks, and his grin widens as he takes in what must be my absolutely mortified expression—the flush creeping up my neck, the way I keep tugging at Kade's shirt like I can somehow make it longer through sheer force of will.
"Yeah. And you're Beck?" I question, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity while continuing my increasingly futile battle with the hem of this too-short shirt. Every time I pull it down in front, it rides up higher in back. There's no winning this war.
"Yeah." He flashes a smile that I'm absolutely certain gets him out of all kinds of trouble—the kind of practiced, disarming charm that probably makes people forget they're annoyed with him. It's almost weaponized friendliness.
"Did Kade not tell you about his roommates?
" Ash asks, leaning back against the counter with the kind of casual ease that makes my embarrassment burn even hotter.
Like this is completely normal. Like they find half-naked women in their kitchen every morning.
Maybe they do. God, what am I doing here?
"No, uh—I—" I start saying, but Beck cuts me off before I can finish fumbling through an explanation I don't even have.
"Yeah, well, I don't think they did much talking last night."
Both of them laugh, the sound echoing through the cavernous open space.
My cheeks turn so red I can actually feel the heat radiating from my face like I'm standing too close to an oven.
I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Want to disappear into the earth and never have to face either of them again.
This is worse than that time I showed up to teach with my skirt tucked into my tights. So much worse.
"What are you looking for, Teach?" Ash asks, straightening from the counter and taking a step closer.
"Water," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. I sound pathetic even to my own ears.