Chapter 8 Unmasked
EIGHT
Unmasked
RIOT
Her words. What if I don't want a gentleman?
Every wall I've ever built cracks down the middle.
She's looking at me like she means it. Like she sees past the jokes, the charm, and the careful distance I keep from everyone. She's not asking for that version of me. She's asking for something rawer. The version I don't let anyone see because it's too hungry, too intense, too much.
The gentleman in me says slow down. She's been through hell. She's vulnerable. But the gentleman didn't see her lead the way up that cliff. She’s not a package to be delivered safely to a destination; she’s a partner who just held my life in her callused hands, and now she’s looking at me like she’s ready to take everything I have to give.
The gentleman can go fuck himself.
I stop thinking.
The moment stretches—too quiet, too charged—and something in me snaps. I grab her, haul her back against me with a sharp pull that knocks the breath from her lungs. Surprise flashes across her face just before I take her mouth.
Hard. Claiming.
No hesitation this time. No careful pacing. Just the heat of her lips under mine, the way she melts into it even as she fists my shirt like she might shove me away or drag me closer—she hasn’t decided which yet.
Her gasp is swallowed by the kiss.
That’s what does it.
The sound. The surrender threaded through resistance. The way her body answers before her pride can catch up.
My hand slides into her hair, not gentle, not cruel—just certain. I keep her exactly where I want her, feel the tension in her give way inch by inch as the moment stretches and deepens.
Slower than before.
But no less inevitable.
When I finally pull back, our foreheads touch, breaths tangled, the air between us humming like it’s alive.
“Still with me?” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer with words.
She leans in and takes me right back.
I’ve imagined this a lot. During the chase, during the climb, in every moment, I told myself to focus on the mission, not on the curve of her lower lip. I imagined, and I was wrong.
The reality of her is better. Devastating.
I keep the first kiss gentle. Testing, tasting, learning the shape of her. She's tentative at first—almost shy, like she's forgotten how to do this or never learned in the first place. Like the asshole who made her feel small also made her feel like she wasn't allowed to want.
That thought makes me want to find him and break his jaw.
But then something shifts. Her hand fists in my shirt. She pulls me closer, and then she kisses me back with a hunger that makes my head spin. Makes my blood burn. Makes every rational thought I've ever had dissolve into smoke.
"God." I pull back just enough to breathe. Our foreheads touch. Her breath comes in ragged gasps that match my own. "You're—"
"If you say 'too much,' I'm pushing you off this cliff."
The laughter surprises me. Bright and warm and absolutely wrong for the circumstances, which somehow makes it perfect.
"I was going to say incredible." I brush my lips across hers—not quite a kiss, just a tease. "Unexpected. Impossible."
"Those are a lot of words."
"I have more."
"Show me instead."
The crevice is narrow, but we make it work. I shift until she's half in my lap, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her from behind. It's not graceful—we bump elbows, knock heads, laugh into each other's mouths when the logistics prove challenging.
It shouldn't be sexy. It is anyway.
My hands find the hem of her fleece. Stop.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. Certain.
"If you want me to stop—at any point—"
"I don't want you to stop." She turns her head, catches my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. "I want you to stop asking and start doing."
The fleece comes off. Underneath, she's wearing a thin thermal—nothing special, utilitarian, the kind of thing you layer for warmth rather than appearance. But the way it clings to her curves makes my mouth go dry.
"Your turn." Her fingers find the zipper of my jacket. Pull.
I help her strip it off, then the long-sleeve underneath. The cold air hits my bare chest, and I don't feel it. Can't feel anything except her hands, tentative at first, then bolder, exploring the planes and angles of my body.
"You're warm," she murmurs against my neck.
"You're beautiful."
"I'm covered in dirt and sweat and probably blood—"
"Beautiful." I catch her mouth again and kiss her until she stops arguing. "You're beautiful, and you're fierce, and you have the most incredible hands I've ever seen."
"My hands?" She laughs, surprised.
"Climber's hands." I take one, press a kiss to her palm, to the calluses I noticed during the chase. Strong. Capable. The hands of someone who knows how to hold on. I’m not just claiming a woman; I’m claiming her—the wild, fierce, magnificent heart of her.
“Riot.” My name comes out strangled.
"I love the way you say my name." I nip at her earlobe, feel her shiver. “But my real name is Jon. Say it."
"Jon."
"Again."
"Jon—please—"
"Please, what?"
She makes a sound of frustration that's half laugh, half moan. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Making me—" She breaks off, squirming against me in a way that does very interesting things to my self-control. "Making me want things."
"What kind of things?"
"Jon."
"I need you to tell me." I still my hands, rest them on her hips, force myself to wait. “Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what you want."
The silence stretches. Her pulse races under my fingers—the flutter of it at her hip, the pound of it in her throat where my lips are currently exploring the graceful expanse of her skin.
"I don't—" Her voice cracks. "I'm not good at asking for things."
“Doesn’t matter.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. Gentle. Patient. "I need to hear it anyway. I need to know that you want this. Not because you're cold, not because we might die, not because you think you should. But because you want it."
"I want it." The words come out in a rush. "I want you. I want—" She takes a breath, and I feel the effort it costs her. The years of being told her desires were too much, her needs too demanding. "I want your hands on me. I want to feel you. I want to stop thinking for five minutes and just—feel."
"There she is." I reward her with a kiss—deep, thorough, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for doubt. "There's my girl."
"I'm not your—"
"You are tonight." My hands slide under her thermal, find warm skin. She gasps. "Tonight, you're mine, and when I fuck, I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before. Is that okay?"
"Yes." The word is barely audible. "Yes. Please."
I take my time.
The thermal comes off slowly—not because of the logistics, but because I want to savor every inch of skin as it's revealed. I want to learn her body. Map her. Memorize the geography of her body so I can find my way back even in the dark.
She's not wearing a bra, which I count as a win. She's been dressed and ready since day three, sleeping in her clothes. The thought of her lying awake in that cabin, terrified and prepared, makes something fierce and protective surge in my chest.
"You're staring." Her voice is shaky. Self-conscious.
"I'm appreciating." I trace the curve of her breast, watch goosebumps rise in the wake of my fingers. "There's a difference."
"You said that before."
"I meant it then. I mean it now." I lower my head and press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. Then lower. "You're a miracle, Evie. Do you know that? A miracle wrapped in granite and determination and the softest skin I've ever touched."
"That's—" She breaks off as my mouth finds her nipple. "Oh…”
"Good Oh, or bad Oh?"
"Good. Very—oh—very good."
I take my time there, too. Learn what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. She's responsive in ways I didn't expect—unguarded, uninhibited, completely present in a way that makes every touch feel electric.
"Jon." Her voice is wrecked. "I need—"
"What do you need?"
"More. Please."
My hand slides down her stomach. Pauses at the waistband of her jeans.
"Here?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Jon." She grabs my face, forces me to look at her. Her eyes are dark, desperate, blazing with a need I put there. "If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm going to scream."
"That's the idea, sweetheart."
I slip my hand into her jeans.
She's wet. Soaking. The proof of her desire coats my fingers as I stroke her, and she makes a sound that isn't quite a word—something primal and needy and utterly perfect.
"That's it." I work her with my fingers, find the rhythm that makes her arch against me. "Let me hear you."
She comes with my name on her lips.
It's a beautiful thing to watch her shatter.
The way her whole body tenses, trembles, and releases.
The way her face goes slack with pleasure, all her careful control finally breaking.
The way she looks at me afterward—stunned, sated, almost confused, like she's never felt anything like that before.
Maybe she hasn't. Maybe the asshole ex never bothered to learn her body. The thought makes me want to break his jaw all over again.
"I want you inside me." Her voice is a wreck. "Now. Please."
We strip off the rest of our clothes in a tangle of limbs and laughter—her jeans caught on her boots, my belt buckle jammed, the absurd logistics of getting naked on a rock ledge in the dark. She's shivering again, but this time it's not from the cold.
"Are you—"
"If you ask me if I'm okay one more time—"
I silence her with a kiss and slide home.
We both go still.
The fit is—I don't have words for what the fit is. Right. Inevitable. Like puzzle pieces clicking together, like a lock finding its key. She's tight and hot and wet around me, and I have to close my eyes and breathe through the overwhelming rightness of it.
"Move." Her voice is a command. “And for the love of god, don’t be gentle about it.”
I move.
The rhythm is slow at first—constrained by space, by position, by the confines of our rocky shelter—but she meets me thrust for thrust, her body rolling against mine, her breath hot against my neck.
Her nails rake down my back. Her teeth find my shoulder.
She's not gentle, and I love her for it—love that she's not holding back, not performing, not trying to be anything other than exactly what she is.
"Harder," she gasps. "I won't break."
"I know you won't," I rasp, my grip tightening on her hips, possessive and absolute. "You're the strongest thing I've ever held. And I won't—I fucking won't—let anyone make you feel fragile ever again."
I give her harder. She takes it, takes all of it, bracing herself against the rock as I drive into her. The cold doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters except this—her body, her sounds, the way she's looking at me like I'm something precious.
"Close." She's trembling again, and this time I know what it means. "I'm so close—Harder please…”
I shift the angle. Find that spot inside her that makes her whole body clench.
"Let go." I'm right there with her, balanced on the edge. "I've got you. Let go."
She shatters.
I follow.