Chapter 37 Sloane #2
“Fuck,” he groans again, his hips stilling as he pushes inside me as far as he can. I can feel the moment he lets go, pulsing and filling me with everything that he’s got.
I’m not sure how it happens, but it triggers a second orgasm that is almost as powerful as the first.
He collapses on top of me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
After a few moments, I cough and then gag, my arms dangling limp in the handcuffs.
“Oh my God,” he says, his head jerking up out of my neck as he helps pull the lace from my mouth.
I take a deep breath, one I hadn’t realized I needed.
“Are you ok, baby?” He asks. His pupils are almost back to normal as he cups my cheeks and his eyes search mine.
He searches for the keys, gently undoing the handcuffs and kissing the red marks on my wrists.
“So much more than ok,” I say, feeling the loopy, post sex high take over. A small smile graces my face as I gently run my fingers through his hair.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, kissing my forehead and my cheek, inspecting my face with his eyes.
“No, I’m ok, I promise. Just needed air,” I say, and he nods.
I let out a whimper when he pulls out of me, feeling emptier than I ever have in my life. We lay in a comfortable silence as we take in what we just experienced. Hair and clothes ruffled, my panties destroyed. Makeup ruined, and all in the back of his squad car.
I giggle. He turns to look at me as if I’ve gone insane.
“I really did just want to surprise you with food,” I say, looking around for the bag. He laughs with me. Both of us just lie here giggling like we’ve gone crazy.
God, this man is going to be my ruin.
I thought seeing him the other night would ease the ache inside of me. That it would make me miss him less. But it has the complete opposite effect.
I don't bother him again for a few more days. Letting him just pour his heart and soul into finding this little girl.
Tuesday evening, the front door opens, and Beckett walks in significantly earlier than I’m expecting.
I’m cooking meat for tacos when Mocha’s paws carry him across the house, his toenails clicking on the ground as he makes a little whimper of excitement to see his dad.
I look at him over my shoulder and offer him a small smile. He looks exhausted, completely drained.
I leave my station at the stove and wrap myself around him. He all but collapses into my arms, clinging to me.
He’s home early, which can only mean one thing.
“Please say that you found her,” I whisper against his chest. He lets out a breath that feels like he’s releasing all the extra weight that he’s been carrying around.
His shoulders shake lightly as he clings to me. I’m not sure if he’s crying or just trembling.
“We found her and brought her home,” he says, lifting his head. When his eyes find mine, they're glassy.
“Oh my God, Beck, that’s amazing,” I say.
He nods. “She’s home, and she’s alive,” he says, and I wrap myself back around him.
“Oh my god,” I say, kissing his cheek. “You saved her.”
“It was a team effort.”
“Oh, stop it, just let me think of you as a big, broody hero for just a moment,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
My comment pulls a little smile from him.
“Dinner’s almost done, if you want to lie down on the couch for a minute,” I inform him.
He nods and lets go of me, dragging his feet as he flops down onto the couch.
Mocha is right there next to him. I think he might’ve missed him even more than I did. Not that I’m sure that’s possible.
When I finish making dinner, I go over to the couch and look down at him, his eyes closed and his breathing slow. It feels like a crime to wake him up right now, but I’m not sure when the last time he ate was. I know that he’ll regret sleeping on the couch all night.
“Hey, baby,” I whisper gently, running my fingers through his hair.
“Mmhmm,” he hums, his eyes stay closed.
“You gotta wake up and have some dinner,” I whisper, still running my fingers through his hair.
He makes a noise of protest, but does open his eyes for me after a few seconds.
“There he is,” I whisper. He slowly sits up, and we go to the counter. He sits, and I make us tacos, loading him up with all his favorite things. I can see how tired he is. But I can’t let him go to sleep just yet.
“Wait right here, I'll be right back,” I say, kissing his forehead. He nods slowly.
My heart aches at how exhausted he looks. I go up to our room, and I run a bath for him, putting in a little bit of bubbles and some lavender to help him fully relax. I grab him some fresh clothes and go back downstairs.
“Come on, baby,” I say, lacing my fingers with his and pulling him upstairs to our room.
I guide him to the bathroom, and he freezes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he whispers, like he can’t believe that anyone would ever want to take care of him in the way that he absolutely deserves to be taken care of.
“I know,” I whisper, pulling him farther into the room and helping him out of his clothes.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to. You deserve good things, too,” I say, kissing his chest and helping him into the tub. I light the candles on the windowsill and turn the light settings to low.
“Just relax, I’m going to make you some cocoa,” I say from my spot next to the tub. I get to the door when his voice stops me.
“Thank you.”
“You never have to thank me for the bare minimum,” I say, using his own words against him.
He doesn’t say anything else, and I leave him alone so that he can have a minute to take everything in, to just relax by himself.
I go back downstairs and throw a towel into the dryer, then go into the kitchen to clean up from dinner and make him some nighttime cocoa.
It tastes good, and it has natural melatonin in it, so I know that it’ll help him sleep.
He deserves it. I look over at the clock and realize that it’s only 8:30 p.m., but that’s ok.
I can lie up there with him even after he falls asleep.
There is nowhere else I’d rather be, especially since I feel like it’s been forever since I got to be with him.
Once the kitchen is spotless, I grab the mug and the towel from the dryer and head back upstairs, Mocha right on my tail.
“Alright, here’s you a nice warm towel, and something warm to drink,” I say, placing the towel on the counter for when he’s ready to get out, and the drink on the wood table by the tub.
“Thanks,” he whispers again.
I sit down on the floor next to the tub, just needing to be close to him for a minute.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“I missed you, too.”
I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. When I look up, he’s already looking at me.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands cupping my cheek. I turn my face and kiss his palm.
I feel myself letting out a breath that I hadn’t even realized I was holding. I close my eyes and let my face rest in his palm.
After a few more minutes, I look up at him and can tell that he’s barely awake.
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” I say, standing up and grabbing the towel for him. He slowly stands up, and I hand him the towel.
While he dries off and gets ready for bed, I drain the tub and put out the candles. I put away everything else that I had gotten out.
He grabs my hand, pulling me towards the room. I follow him willingly, Mocha already asleep on the edge of the bed.
We climb under the covers and turn on the TV. He hands me the remote, and I pick a random movie that I know he won’t make it very long into. He pulls me into him, our limbs tangling together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m so glad to be home.”
“Me too.”
I’m sure that when he said it, he meant the house. I know that I meant him, because Beckett Hayes is my home.