Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He walks me backward, his lips never leaving mine, our bodies moving together in an awkward, desperate shuffle.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, his shirt, anything I can grab hold of to keep him close. We bump into furniture—the edge of the dresser, the corner of the bookshelf—but neither of us slows down.
His good hand splays across the small of my back, fingers pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, guiding me, steadying me as we move.
The cast on his other hand brushes against my hip, a clumsy reminder of everything that's happened, but I don't care.
All I care about is the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of him against me, the way he kisses me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters right now.
My calves hit the edge of the mattress and I lose my balance, falling backward onto the bed.
I don't let go of him—my fingers are twisted in his shirt, gripping tight, and I pull him down with me.
He catches himself with his good hand, bracing against the mattress beside my head, his cast landing awkwardly near my shoulder.
For just a second we pause, both breathing hard, our eyes locked.
Then he's kissing me again, covering my body with his.
Our clothes disappear in a desperate frenzy—my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, yanking it open with so much force that I hear one pop off and skitter across the floor.
His good hand works at my jeans, thumbs hooking into the waistband and dragging them down my hips while I kick them off impatiently.
Zippers rasp, fabric rustles and slides, everything hitting the mattress and floor in a chaotic pile that neither of us pays any attention to. My shirt goes flying. His pants follow. The air between us crackles with urgency.
He hovers over me, the cast on his injured hand braced carefully beside my head, his good hand planted on the bed on my other side.
His chest heaves with each breath, muscles taut and beautiful in the dim light filtering through the window.
For one suspended heartbeat, we just look at each other—his dark eyes fixing mine, searching, asking a silent question.
I don't give him time to second-guess anything. My hands fly up and I yank him down by the neck, fingers tangling in his beautiful wavy hair, and I kiss him like I'm drowning and he's my only source of air.
His mouth moves from mine to my jaw, licking a trail of hot kisses along the sensitive skin there before dropping to my throat. He finds the perfect spot and lingers there, teeth grazing, teasing, making my breath hitch in my chest.
Then he travels lower down to my collarbone, exploring every inch of exposed skin, and I can barely stand it…. he’s driving me crazy.
I arch into him desperately, my spine curving off the bed as I press closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more of everything.
My fingers thread through his soft hair, the strands silky between my fingertips, and I tug hard—harder than I probably should—pulling him closer, urging him on, wordlessly begging him not to stop.
He groans.
“Fuck me already,” I moan.
He smiles that perfect grin I love as he pushes into me. Hard. Like I like it.
“Harder," I breathe.
He obliges immediately, his hands gripping my hips with a possessive intensity that sends electricity crackling through my nerve endings. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, anchoring me, holding me exactly where he wants me.
I dig my nails into his shoulders in response, feeling the firm muscle beneath my palms, then drag them down his back with deliberate force.
He doesn't complain—doesn't even flinch.
If anything, the sharp bite of pain seems to spur him on, drawing a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest that reverberates through both our bodies.
His grip tightens on my hips, becoming more urgent, more desperate.
I lose myself completely in him—in the delicious friction building between us, in the heat radiating from our sweat-slicked bodies, in the intoxicating way his body moves with mine in perfect synchronization.
Every push drives the frustration deeper into my core, transforms it into something raw and electric and utterly consuming. The anger, the fear, the helplessness—it all bleeds away, replaced by pure physical sensation that drowns out every coherent thought.
My world narrows to just this: the slide of skin against skin, the ragged sound of our breathing filling the quiet room, the exquisite pressure building and building with relentless intensity.
"Liza—" His voice breaks.
I thread my fingers through his hair and pull again—harder this time, tugging at the roots with enough force to tilt his head back.
A sharp hiss escapes his lips, but it's edged with pleasure rather than pain.
I can feel him shudder beneath my touch, his entire body trembling as he fights for control.
The tension inside me coils tighter and tighter, winding like a spring compressed to its absolute limit. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. My vision blurs at the edges. And then, finally, mercifully, it snaps—the tension releasing all at once.
My orgasm rips through me—white-hot, consuming, obliterating everything else. Daniel, Claudia, the police, the fear—it all dissolves into blinding sensation.
When I finally come back to myself, Julian's collapsed beside me, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to mine.
"Better?" he murmurs.
I laugh, breathless. "Yeah. That was exactly what I needed."
He kisses my temple, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip. "Good."
For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
Colleen stirs her soup, distracted. We're at the same café we always meet at—small, tucked into a corner nobody notices. The kind of place where you can talk freely.
"I found something," she says, voice low.
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"One of the lead investigators on Daniel's case?
Detective Kirby. You know, the one who keeps finding convenient reasons to dismiss every complaint we file?
" She leans forward across the table, her voice dropping even lower, barely above a whisper.
"Turns out they went to high school together years ago.
They've stayed close ever since—they're actual buddies. "
The lettuce in my salad suddenly tastes like cardboard. I set down my fork. "You're kidding."
"I wish." Her jaw tightens. "I went digging through old yearbooks, social media. There's photos of them at reunions, golfing together. They're friends, Liza."
Heat floods my face, anger burning through my chest. "That's why they won't do anything. That's why they let him walk."
"Exactly." Colleen's hands tremble around her mug. "I tried reporting it, but they said it's not a conflict of interest unless there's proof of interference. What a load of shit."
I push my plate away, appetite gone. "So that's it? He just gets away with everything? Breaking Julian's hand, terrorizing us, whatever he did to Claudia—"
"I don't know." Her voice cracks. "I feel like I'm going insane. Like we're screaming into a void and nobody's listening."
My mind conjures an image so vivid it startles me: me, standing in Daniel's apartment, a knife gripped in my hand. Walking toward him as he sits on that pristine leather couch, unsuspecting. Plunging the blade straight into his heart. Watching the shock drain from his face.
I blink hard, shaking my head.
"You okay?" Colleen asks.
"Yeah." My voice sounds hollow. "Just... tired."
But I'm not tired. I'm furious. Helpless. And somewhere deep inside, a part of me I don't recognize whispers: You could do it. You could make him stop.
I shove the thought away, horrified.
"We'll figure something out," I tell Colleen, though I'm not sure I believe it anymore.
She nods, unconvinced.
We finish our lunch in silence, both of us knowing the same terrible truth: Daniel's untouchable.
And there's nothing we can do about it.