Chapter 12 #2
I scramble backward so fast I nearly fall off the bed. Hit the headboard with my back. My hand flies up—to my mouth, my throat, somewhere. Like I can somehow undo what just happened. Undo all of it.
“What—?” The word comes out broken. “What did I—?”
I can’t finish. Can’t process.
Because I just— We just—
I look at him.
He’s propped up on his elbows, chest heaving, shirt rucked up to expose his stomach, hair completely destroyed from my hands.
His lips are swollen from kissing. His pants…
I can see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric, can see the wet spot where precum soaked through, and my juices mingled.
Evidence of what we were doing.
What I wanted.
What I almost—
“Oh God.”
“Nadia—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. Shaking. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”
Silence crashes down.
Heavy. Suffocating.
I squeeze my eyes closed to shut out the sight of him. I can’t comprehend what just happened. Can’t reconcile the fact that I was just grinding on him, kissing him, wanting him with an intensity that terrified me.
Still want him.
That’s the worst part.
My body hasn’t gotten the message that this was wrong. Heat still floods through me. Wetness still slicks my thighs. My wolf is howling in frustration at being pulled back from the edge.
Mine. Want. Need. Go back.
No.
I press my hands against my face. Try to breathe. Try to think through the haze of arousal and confusion and horror.
What did I just do?
I can still taste him. Still feel where his hands were. Still feel the hard length of him pressed against me, thick and heavy and—
Stop!
I hear him move. The rustle of fabric. The shift of weight on the mattress.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough. Strained. “I should have— I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t do anything.” The words come out harsh. “I started it. You tried not to. I made you—”
“You didn’t make me do anything.” Quiet. Certain. “I wanted—” He stops. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted. You weren’t fully—”
“I was awake.” I force myself to look at him. To own this. “Maybe not at first. But by the end? I knew what I was doing.”
His jaw tightens. Neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches. Unbearable.
A knock at the door shatters it.
We both freeze.
Another knock. “Room seven? Got a message for you.”
The motel owner.
I look at Jericho. He looks at me.
Move. I need to move.
I scramble off the bed, looking for— What? My dignity, probably. I stumble to my feet. Try to make myself look like someone who wasn’t just dry-humping a man she came here to kill.
“Just a minute,” I call out. Voice too rough. I clear my throat. Try again. “One second.”
Jericho stands, pulls his shirt down, and runs a hand through his hair. Our eyes meet for half a second, and the awareness between us is unbearable.
I cross to the door. Breathe. Open it.
The motel owner is weathered, holding a piece of paper. “Wire transfer came through. Guy named Viktor. Five hundred dollars. Said to give it to room seven.” He hands me the receipt. “Cash is at the front desk whenever you want it.”
“Thank you.”
He nods, starts to turn, pauses. “You folks okay? Thought I heard—”
Heat floods my face. “Fine. We’re fine. Just… a nightmare.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t care. “Front desk closes at ten. Get the cash before then.”
“We will.”
I close the door.
Lean against it.
Five hundred dollars. Food. Supplies. Normal things.
Except nothing is normal.
We just crossed a line we can’t uncross.
I turn around slowly.
Jericho is by the window. Not looking at me. Giving me space.
“We should get the money,” I say. Professional. Practical. Like I wasn’t just straddling him with my hand in his hair and his hand in my pants. “Get food. We haven’t eaten since—”
I don’t remember when.
“All right.”
That’s it. Just agreement.
No discussion of what just happened. No attempt to analyze or explain or make it into something it’s not.
Maybe that’s better.
Maybe if we don’t talk about it, we can pretend it didn’t happen.
Except I can still taste him. Still feel where his hands were. Still feel the thick press of his—
Cut it out!
From the careful way he’s not looking at me, I know he remembers too.
“I need to… freshen up,” I say.
He nods.
I move to the bathroom. Close the door.
Lean against the sink and stare at my reflection.
My lips are swollen. My hair is a mess. My pupils are still dilated with arousal. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who just came dangerously close to fucking a man she should despise.
I splash cold water on my face. Try to wash away the evidence. Try to wash away the wanting.
It doesn’t work.
When I emerge, Jericho is by the door. Fully composed. Looking nothing like someone who was just pinned beneath me while I practically mauled him.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
We leave the room in silence. Step out into cold morning air that does nothing to cool the heat still burning beneath my skin.
I don’t know how we’re supposed to function now.
How I’m supposed to look at him and act normal when I know exactly how he tastes. How he feels. How he sounds when he stops fighting what he wants.
How I’m supposed to kill him when my wolf is convinced she needs him.
The sun is up. It’s a brand new day.
And everything has changed.