Chapter 8
Raine
The storm hasn’t let up.
Thunder rattles the walls, rain slams against the roof in relentless waves, and the power flickers just enough to make the shadows shift like something alive.
But it’s not the storm outside that has me on edge.
It’s him.
Emmett is standing by the window, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked as he watches the night like he’s waiting for it to attack. I can feel it radiating off him—anger, frustration, something darker brewing beneath the surface.
Something I shouldn’t want to touch.
But I do.
I don’t know when it started—this thing between us, crackling like a live wire, dangerous and impossible to ignore. Maybe it was from the moment he pulled the trigger back in that motel. Maybe it was the way he looked at me when I told him the truth about Dante.
Or maybe it’s been there all along, waiting to unravel.
“You should be sleeping,” he mutters without looking at me.
I cross my arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “So should you.”
His mouth tightens. “Can’t.”
Neither can I.
I exhale, shifting my weight. “You always this broody, or is it just for me?”
That gets a reaction. His head turns just enough for his gaze to catch mine, steel-gray and unreadable. But there’s something there, something sharp and burning beneath the surface.
Something that has nothing to do with keeping me safe.
“I’m not broody.”
I snort. “Oh, please. You’ve been scowling at the rain for the past hour like it personally offended you.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns fully, his stance widening, his presence filling the room in a way that makes it harder to breathe.
“I don’t like loose ends,” he says, voice low, rough. “And right now, you’re the biggest one I’ve ever had.”
Something cold curls in my stomach, but I ignore it. “You could’ve let me go.”
His jaw tics. “Could I?”
I don’t have an answer for that. Because the truth is, I never tried to leave. Not really.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.
Silence stretches between us, heavy, thick with something neither of us wants to name. The fire casts a soft glow across the room, flickering against his sharp features, the scars that tell a story I haven’t heard yet.
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Because suddenly, he’s there. Right in front of me, too close, too much.
His hand lifts, fingers tracing the line of my jaw, slow, measured. Like he’s waiting for me to flinch. Waiting for me to pull away.
I don’t.
I tilt my chin up, my breath unsteady, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to convince yourself not to do something.”
His fingers curl around the back of my neck, his grip just firm enough to make my knees weak. “I am.”
“And?”
His eyes darken. “I’m losing.”
His mouth crashes against mine, and everything else ceases to exist.
Emmett doesn’t kiss like a man testing the waters—he kisses like he’s already drowning, desperate, consuming, his lips bruising, his tongue invading, staking a claim I shouldn’t want him to make. But I do.
I fist the front of his shirt, yanking him closer, needing him, needing this, like an addict chasing a high.
His body is heat and muscle, hard edges pressing into my softer ones, and it only makes me want him more.
The storm howls outside, thunder shaking the walls, but it’s nothing compared to the wild hunger rolling through me.
His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, and before I can process it, he’s spinning me, pushing me back until my legs hit the couch.
I fall, landing against the cushions with a soft gasp, and he follows, caging me in, one knee wedged between my thighs, his hands braced on either side of my head.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is a low growl, but there’s something else beneath it. A warning. A plea.
I don’t.
Instead, I reach for him, my fingers threading through his hair as I pull him down, crashing my mouth against his. He groans into me, and that’s all it takes for his control to snap.
He grabs my shirt and yanks it over my head, his mouth immediately trailing down my neck, biting and sucking until I know I’ll be marked. A possessive kind of branding. His.
His hands cup my breasts through my thin bra, thumbs dragging over my hardening nipples, teasing me through the lace. “Fuck,” he mutters, before shoving the fabric down, his mouth latching onto one aching peak.
I gasp, arching into him as his tongue swirls, hot and wet, before he drags his teeth over the sensitive bud, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight between my legs.
He groans, his other hand kneading my other breast, his fingers tugging, tweaking, building a slow, excruciating pleasure that has me grinding up against his thigh.
“You like that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin before he switches to the other nipple, giving it the same torturous worship.
I whimper, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes.”
His tongue flicks, his teeth scrape, and the needy pulse between my legs turns unbearable. I’m dripping, aching, desperate for more.
As if sensing it, he moves lower, his mouth trailing down my stomach, his fingers hooking into my waistband. “Lift up.”
I do, and he drags my sweatpants and panties down in one rough motion, leaving me completely bare beneath him.
His eyes darken as he spreads my thighs, his breath catching. “Fuck, look at you.”
Heat licks up my spine at the way he stares—hungry, reverent, like he’s about to devour me whole. And then he does.
He grips my thighs, yanking me to the edge of the couch, spreading me wider before lowering his mouth to me. The first flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through me, and I moan, my hips jerking, but he pins me down with strong hands, holding me open for him.
“Stay still,” he orders, his voice vibrating against me, dark and commanding. “I’m not done tasting you.”
I barely have time to breathe before his tongue drags through my wetness, slow, deliberate, before circling my clit with devastating precision. My back bows, a strangled sound ripping from my throat.
He groans like he’s enjoying this as much as I am, like he’s savoring every desperate sound that escapes me. He licks, sucks, plunges his tongue inside me before pulling back and flicking my clit again, working me into a feverish frenzy.
I’m shaking, burning up, my thighs trembling as he ruins me with his mouth.
“Emmett,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.
He hums, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through me, and then he slides two fingers inside me, stretching me, curling just right.
My vision goes white.
I shatter with a cry, my body locking up, my orgasm ripping through me in hot, pulsing waves. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, fucking me through it, his tongue relentless as he coaxes every last tremor from me.
Only when I go boneless does he finally pull away, his mouth glistening, his expression wrecked with desire.
“Come here,” he growls, pulling me up, flipping me onto my knees on the couch, bending me over the backrest. His hands grip my hips, and I barely have time to catch my breath before I feel the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
I whimper, still sensitive, still throbbing, but the need for him, for more, drowns out everything else.
“Say it,” he demands, his breath ragged.
I swallow, arching my back, offering myself to him. “I want you to fuck me.”
A harsh groan rips from his chest, and then he thrusts inside me in one deep, brutal motion.
I gasp, my fingers digging into the couch, my body stretching to take him. He’s thick, overwhelming, and the sweet burn of him filling me to the hilt has me keening.
“Jesus, you’re tight,” he grits out, his hands gripping my hips, holding me steady as he pulls back and slams into me again.
The force knocks the breath from my lungs, but I don’t care. I want it harder, rougher, everything he has to give.
“More,” I gasp, meeting his thrusts, desperate.
He growls something dark and filthy before snapping his hips forward, pounding into me with punishing strokes, his grip bruising, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside me.
It’s raw, frantic, a collision of need and frustration and something deeper, something neither of us can name.
The couch creaks beneath us, the storm rages outside, and still, he doesn’t stop.
He leans over me, his breath hot against my ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he rasps, his hand snaking around my body, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles. “Come for me again.”
The demand rips through me, sending me careening over the edge a second time. My body seizes, pleasure detonating inside me, and Emmett follows with a strangled groan, his thrusts turning erratic before he buries himself deep, his release spilling hot inside me.
We stay there, tangled, breathing hard, the storm still raging outside.
When he finally pulls away, his hands linger on my hips, his forehead pressing against my shoulder like he’s grounding himself.
“That was something,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
I swallow hard, my body still trembling. “I know.”
Neither of us move.
Neither of us let go.
And I think we both know—we’re both in too deep now.