Chapter Thirty-Three #2
She lifts her chin. “Do you really want me gone?”
Fuck it.
I take her hand. Drag it across the front of my sweatpants. My cock hardens even more—a savage pulse of yes, this, finally, mine.
“That answer your question?”
She jerks, tries to pull away, but I keep her hand right where it is—pressed against the proof I can’t hide.
Her chest heaves, those green eyes dark, furious, glistening.
I step into her, stroking the inside of her wrist with my thumb.
“Didn’t take you for the clingy type.” Either I’m an asshole—or too high off this war, this wreckage.
I expect a slap. Or at least one of her sassy comebacks.
Her fingers wrap around my cock. “Fuck you.”
I back her into the wall. Brace one hand beside her head, the other wrapped around her wrist, pulse kicking under my thumb.
“Is that what you want?” I drag my mouth from her neck to her ear. “One last fuck to get me out of your system?”
Her breathy laugh goes straight to my dick. She sags back, eyelids heavy, gaze still burning. “I came to return your shitty cameras.”
“Don’t lie to me, little fox.”
Something flickers in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembles.
My mouth hovers near hers—not enough to count as a kiss.
Her breath shakes. She drags me down to her—
My hands drop to her waist. Hold her still. “I’m not touching you unless you tell me what you want.”
“Fuck you.”
“Keep that up and I’ll have you begging with your mouth full.”
She shudders. Buries her face in my neck, fingers digging into my hips.
My heart’s punching bone, but my hands don’t move.
Not until she gives in.
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. Another squeeze—just shy of painful.
“Good answer.” My grin’s feral.
For the first time tonight, she looks at me like maybe we’ve both done something right.
“Should you even be doing this? I mean—aren’t you still, like … recovering?”
I bark out a laugh. “I’d fuck you with a bullet still in me.”
She smacks my chest. “Not funny.”
I grind against her. She rolls her hips, and I damn near lose it. Can’t breathe without her. Can’t think beyond what I’d give to have her again—
One more night. One more chance.
She arches—enough to slide my shirt up.
I can’t move without ripping away from her.
So I let her take it. My shirt. The space. Every inch of me.
Her skin’s soft and warm. Mine’s buzzing. And fuck—how goddamn close I came to never feeling her like this again.
She drags her fingers down the center of my chest.
Thumb brushing over the raised scar on my shoulder, the one near my ribs, that jagged slice along my hip.
I stay still.
If this is all I get, I’ll fucking take it.
But my little fox wants something else, too. The one thing I never gave her.
Control.
She touches me like she owns me—fingertips skimming everywhere.
Then she squeezes my cock again. Harder this time. Testing.
I hiss and surge against her. A few more strokes, her breath shaky in my ear, and I lose it.
I snatch her wrists. Pin her against the wall. My mouth slams against hers—capturing her gasp.
She squirms. Grips my shoulders.
My hands slip to her waist. I pull her flush against me, palming the curve of her ass.
Pink spreads from her neck to her cheeks to her fucking perfect tits. She parts her legs without a word.
I lift her. Shove her down hard against the thick line of my cock.
Her thighs clamp around me.
I rut up into her—dry-humping her like some fucking teenager.
She moans. Bites down on my lip so hard it stings.
Blood blooms between us.
Her tongue follows, licking it away—slow, hot, and filthy.
Her hand slides between us, fumbling for the hem of my sweats.
Fuck—I might actually die if I don’t get inside her soon.
“No.” I set her down, pinning her with a look. “You first.”
Her fingers reach for the button on her jeans. Those eyes don’t leave mine.
She does it slow. Wants me ruined by it.
Denim slips past her hips, drags down those perfect thighs, catching at the knees like her body can’t stand to be bare.
And fuck—
The scent of her hits me.
My mouth waters. My control goes razor-thin.
She’s trembling—not with fear. With need. With the weight of my stare. And I haven’t even touched her yet.
I haul her up. Let her cling to me as I cross the room.
One sweep clears the desk—pills, glasses, some camp crap Max made. All of it hits the floor.
She lands on the edge—legs dangling, breath stuttering. Eyes wide. Blank.
As if she’s gone elsewhere—back on that altar.
My grip loosens. “Still with me?”
Her lashes flick up. A shaky nod.
Good. I’ll make it count. Every fucking second.
I tug off her sneakers. Drag her jeans the rest of the way down.
Her thighs tense. Try to snap shut.
I shove them wider. My pulse hammers, every muscle locked like I’m bracing for a hit.
Her head falls back.
I stroke my fingers down her cunt—slick, swollen, perfect—still covered by that black lace.
A fucking sin.
Her breath goes choppy. A flicker of eyelids. The catch of a whine in the back of her throat.
“Is this for me?” I rasp, thumb dragging over soaked lace. “You get off knowing I’m watching?”
A shuddering sigh. “Maybe it’s what I do now that you’ve stopped.”
My jaw ticks. “I never fucking stopped. You just couldn’t see me anymore.”
I tear the thin barrier down the middle. Shove two fingers inside her. Tight. Wet. Fucking unreal. She clamps down like she doesn’t want to let go.
I crush my mouth to hers, slide my tongue past her lips—stroking in rhythm with each thrust inside her.
Devour every moan.
I drop to my knees and drag her to the edge. Her legs hook around my shoulders.
She smells like musk. Like mine.
I press kisses on her inner thigh. Slower. Higher. Until her hand fists in my hair.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
Does she see it?
That it’s the one place I’ve ever fucking fit—right here, between her legs.
I’d burn for her. Die for her. Worship her and ruin her in the same breath.
My tongue swipes across her. She writhes, tries to squirm free.
And it goes from too much to nowhere near enough.
I grip her thighs, feasting on her like this is my prayer, my penance, my fucking reward. Lick her lazily just to watch her fall apart. “Eyes on me. Look at me when you come.”
Her teeth sink into her lip and her gaze goes liquid—hazy, fever-bright.
Her moan cracks me open. A fucking wounded sound, as if I’ve got my knife at her throat instead of my tongue in her pussy.
“This what you wanted?” My voice scrapes raw. “You dripping on my face, remembering how I fucked you against that altar?”
Her thighs clamp tighter. Her fingers knot in my hair.
“You kept count?” I bite the inside of her thigh—enough to make her gasp. “How many nights you touched yourself thinking about my cock inside you?”
“Kade—” Half a sob.
I suck her clit between my teeth. Not gentle. Never gentle with her.
And when she starts to fall apart—hips jerking, feet digging into my back—I keep going.
Until she’s grinding her pussy against my face, sobbing my name like it means something.
Like I mean something.
She shatters.
Hard.
Raw.
Ruined.
She’s shaking, begging me to stop. Her grip goes slack. Wet hitches.
I crawl up her body and wipe my mouth on her tank top.
“Now you remember.”
I watch the understanding hit her—this wasn’t some goodbye fuck.
This was a reckoning—my heart at her fucking feet.
She kisses me, tasting the slick mess of herself, and I nearly break.
I strip off her top. Tear away the bra. Her tits spill free—soft. Full. Perfect. My fingers splay across her stomach. “Lie back.”
Her spine hits the desk, arms loose at her sides, chest rising and falling rapidly.
I lick up her breasts. Suck one nipple like I mean it. The other’s caught between my fingers, thumb scraping over the peak.
Her back arches. Her gasp is fucking art.
I kiss a trail down the valley between her tits, across her stomach, back up, mapping her with my mouth until I’m pressed fully against her—shirtless, sweating, hard enough to hurt.
She sits up, laces her hands behind my neck.
“Please, Kade,” she breathes.
I lift her off the desk. Her legs lock around my waist.
She lands on the mattress with a thud, hair fanned out like she fucking belongs there. And she does.