Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Megan
The cabin is hushed except for the low crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of the old clock on the mantel. We’re on the couch, laptops long forgotten on the coffee table, empty mugs pushed aside, the glow of the flames painting everything in warm amber and deep shadow.
Aaron’s arm is stretched along the back of the couch behind me, fingers just brushing my shoulder.
My legs are tucked under me, one bare foot resting against his thigh.
We’ve been talking for hours about the case, about Valor Springs, about nothing and everything.
The kind of conversation that feels like foreplay, each word a slow stroke, building heat we both pretend we’re not feeling.
I’m wearing his navy flannel again. Sleeves rolled to my elbows, top two buttons undone, hem barely skimming the tops of my thighs.
I’ve caught him looking, multiple times, his eyes darkening every time they drop to the exposed skin between the collar and the first button, tracing the curve of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts beneath the soft fabric.
I finally ask the question that’s been burning in me since the first night.
“How did you get this scar?” My voice is soft, careful. I reach up and trace the thin white scar that runs along his jaw with the pad of my finger.
He tenses, just for a heartbeat, then exhales, long and slow, like he’s been carrying the weight of those memories for years. His hand comes up, covers mine against his face. He doesn’t pull away.
“Special Forces,” he says quietly. “Eight years. Four deployments. Mostly classified. They left marks.”
I wait. Don’t push.
He looks into the fire, voice steady but edged with something raw.
“Last tour, we got bad intel. We went in expecting light resistance, but walked into an ambush. Lost half the team in the first five minutes. I dragged two guys out, carried one over my shoulder while the other bled out in my arms. Took shrapnel here—” He touches the puckered scar low on his ribs.
“Knife here—” The one on his shoulder blade.
“And this one—” He lifts my fingers to the scar on his jaw.
“Guy got close. Thought he had me. I thought I was dead. Then I wasn’t. ”
His voice is steady, but I hear the cracks underneath, the weight of lives lost, the guilt he still carries, the scars that never really heal.
I lean in, softly pressing my lips to the scar on his jaw. “You’re amazing, Aaron.”
His breath hitches.
I kiss it again, lingering this time, letting my lips rest there. “You’re the man who carried me out of danger. The man who cooks me breakfast. The man who pays attention to how I take my coffee. The man who’s fighting every instinct because he thinks it’s the right thing to do.”
He turns his head, eyes dark, intense, full of something that makes my heart stutter. “Megan.”
I cup his face with both hands. “Stop fighting.”
He closes his eyes. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
I kiss him.
Slow at first. Soft. A question.
He answers.
His hands slide into my hair, fisting gently, tilting my head so he can take the kiss deeper. His tongue strokes mine slowly, thoroughly, claiming. I moan into his mouth. He groans in response, low and rough.
The kiss turns hungry.
He pulls me onto his lap, my thighs straddling his hips. I feel him, hard and thick, pressing against me through his jeans. I grind down instinctively. He growls, hands sliding under the flannel, palms hot on my bare skin.
“Fuck, baby,” he mutters against my lips. “You’re killing me.”
I nip his bottom lip. “I’m not trying to. I want you to take what you want.”
He flips us effortlessly, so I’m on my back on the couch, him looming over me. His mouth crashes back to mine, devouring. His hands roam under the shirt, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard peaks. I arch into his touch, whimpering.
He breaks the kiss, trails his mouth down my throat, teeth grazing my collarbone. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs. “Been dying to taste you since the first night.”
He pushes the flannel up, kisses my stomach, my ribs, then takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. I cry out, fingers threading through his hair. He switches to the other breast, teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue soothing the ache.
I’m already soaked. I can feel it between my thighs, the damp heat of my panties.
He knows.
One hand slides down my stomach and cups me over the lace panties that are useless now.
“Jesus,” he groans when his fingers find how wet I am. “All this for me?”
“Always for you,” I gasp.
He rubs slow circles over my clit through the fabric. I whimper, hips lifting into his touch.
“Take them off,” I beg.
He drags them down my legs in one long pull, tossing them somewhere across the room. Then he spreads my thighs wide, settles between them, and looks at me.
I’m open, exposed, and dripping.
His eyes darken. “Fucking perfect.”
Before I can answer, his mouth is on me.
No warning. No gentle kisses. He licks me in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit, groaning like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. I cry out, hands flying to his hair, gripping hard.
He doesn’t let up.
He eats me like a man possessed. His tongue flat and broad, then pointed and flicking, circling my clit with perfect pressure. Two thick fingers push inside me, curling up to hit that spot that makes my vision go black.
“Aaron, fuck, oh god—”
He hums against me, the vibration sending shocks through my whole body. Then he sucks my clit into his mouth, hard and relentless, and I shatter apart.
The orgasm hits like a freight train. My thighs clamp around his head, back arching so hard I nearly lift off the couch. I scream his name, wave after wave crashing through me until I’m shaking, boneless, gasping.
He doesn’t stop until I’m whimpering from overstimulation.
When he finally lifts his head, his chin is glistening, his lips swollen, his eyes wild.
I grab him by the hair and drag him up to me, kissing him deep, tasting myself on his tongue. It’s filthy. It’s perfect.
“My turn,” I whisper against his mouth.
I push him onto his back.
He lets me.
I straddle his hips, feel how hard he is through his jeans. He feels so thick and hard. I grind down once, twice, watching his head fall back, throat working.
Then I slide lower.
I pop the button on his jeans, drag the zipper down slowly. He’s commando. His cock springing free, heavy and flushed, the tip already slick.
I lick my lips.
His hips jerk.
I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, slow from base to tip. He groans, low and guttural.
Then I take him in my mouth.
No teasing. I slide down as far as I can, hollowing my cheeks, tongue swirling around the head. His hand flies to my hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers threading through the strands like he’s anchoring himself.
“Fuck, Meg—”
I hum around him. He curses again, his hips lifting just a fraction before he catches himself.
I work him slowly at first with long, wet drags of my mouth, tongue tracing every vein, sucking the head hard on every upstroke. Then faster. Deeper. Messier.
His breathing turns ragged. His thighs tremble, and the hand in my hair tightens.
“Baby, I’m going to come.”
I don’t stop.
I take him deep one more time, swallow around him, and he comes hard in hot pulses down my throat, groaning my name like a prayer.
When he’s spent, I pull off slowly, licking him clean, watching his chest heave.
He looks wrecked and so beautiful.
I crawl up his body, straddle his hips again. He’s already half-hard again.
I smile down at him. “Already?”
He grabs my hips, rolls us in one smooth motion, so I’m on my back again.
“Not done with you,” he growls.
He spreads my thighs wide, notches himself at my entrance, and rubs the head through my slickness.
I whimper. “Please.”
He pushes in, taking his time, letting me feel every thick inch. When he’s seated deep, he pauses, forehead pressed to mine.
“Look at me.”
I open my eyes. His eyes are dark, intense, full of something that looks dangerously close to love.
Then he starts to move. Slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside me. I wrap my legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.
“Harder,” I gasp.
He gives it to me.
Harder. Faster. The couch creaks under us. Skin slaps skin. His hand finds my clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucks me deep.
I’m climbing again. It’s fast and unstoppable.
“Aaron, gonna…”
“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough. “Let me feel you.”
I shatter.
Louder this time, crying his name as my walls pulse around him. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking, oversensitive, pleading.
Then he pulls out and flips me onto my stomach.
“Ass up,” he says.
I obey instantly, knees under me, face pressed to the cushions, back arched.
He spreads me open with both hands, groans at the sight.
Then he’s pushing back in. The feel of his cock is deeper from this angle, hitting places that make me see stars.
He fucks me hard. One hand on my hip, the other braced beside my head. Every thrust jolts me forward, breasts dragging against the couch, nipples hard and aching.
I push back into him, meeting every stroke.
“Fuck, yes, right there…”
He leans over me, chest to my back, lips at my ear.
“You’re mine,” he growls.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He reaches around, fingers finding my clit again.
I come almost immediately—hard, sudden, screaming into the cushion. My walls clamp down on him, and he follows, thrusting deep one last time, spilling inside me with a broken groan of my name.
We collapse together, sweaty, trembling, tangled. He rolls us to our sides, still inside me, arms wrapped tight around my front.
His lips find the back of my neck.
We don’t move for a long time, and I can only hope he doesn’t regret this later. I know I won’t.