Chapter Twelve
Zayn
I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the room next to Ayla’s, sleep nowhere in sight.
My mind won’t quit—turning over everything that’s happened: Derek, what Alex did, the chaos we’re all tangled in now.
I know I should be focused on the plan, on how the hell we’re going to get all of us out of this mess and keep Ayla safe.
But I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s selfish as hell, maybe even wrong, but every time I close my eyes, it’s her face I see, her laugh I hear.
I keep telling myself to stay sharp, to remember what’s at stake.
But the truth is, I want to be near her.
The worry gnaws at me, sharp at the edges, but so does something else—something hotter, more immediate.
I shouldn’t be lying here, thinking about Ayla when everything could go sideways in a second.
But I am. I want her, and the wanting makes me reckless.
I get up, padding quietly downstairs for a glass of water, trying to settle my nerves, trying to remind myself what matters.
When I head back up, I notice Ayla’s door is cracked open, her room dark except for a sliver of moonlight spilling across the bed.
She’s lying on her side, facing the door, her breaths slow and even.
I hesitate for a second, battling with myself—this is a bad idea, she needs rest, I need to keep my head straight.
But the pull is too strong, and I give in.
I slip inside and sit gently on the edge of her bed behind her, knowing I should be thinking strategy and instead just aching for her.
She doesn’t stir when I place my hand carefully on her waist. Slowly, almost reverently, I let my hand drift down to her hip, then to the curve of her ass.
She lets out a low, sleepy moan that sends heat flooding through me.
I know I should stop—should get up, should leave her alone, should be thinking about escape routes and backup plans.
But I don’t. Unable to resist, I lie down behind her, pressing my chest to her back, my hand gliding up under her shirt to cup her breast. She arches into my touch, her nipple pebbling beneath my fingers.
I whisper, “Hello, gorgeous,” into her hair, and she pushes her hips back, grinding against my cock—already hard for her.
I press soft kisses along her neck, savoring the way Ayla melts into me, her breath hitching with every touch.
My hand slides down her stomach, slow and careful, until I find the waistband of her shorts.
She lifts her hips, inviting me, and I ease them down, revealing her bare skin to the cool air.
My fingers trace up her inner thigh, lingering, teasing, until I find her slick, wet cunt.
When she doesn’t stop me, I let my fingers circle her clit in slow, gentle motions, drawing out a soft, broken moan that makes my chest tighten with need.
“Ayla,” I breathe into her ear, deep and low, my voice thick with desire.
She whimpers, arching back against me, her body trembling with pleasure as I keep circling her clit, slow and patient.
The way her breath hitches, the way she presses her hips back into me, silently begging for more—there’s no mistaking how much she wants this.
Her thighs fall open for me, her body moving with mine, every muscle taut with anticipation.
When Ayla’s hand slides behind her and tugs at my waistband, I don’t hesitate—I shove my sweatpants down, kicking them off in the dark.
Her fingers wrap around my cock, heat and curiosity in her touch, and she lets out a startled, breathless gasp as she explores the two perpendicular barbells piercing the head.
The way she lingers, her thumb tracing the metal, makes my heart pound.
She’s not just letting this happen—she’s exploring.
Her moans grow deeper, needier, and she keeps pushing back, grinding against me, her body slick and eager, making it clear that she wants every inch I can give her.
The sensation of her palm, her awe, sends a jolt of satisfaction through me, and for a moment we both just freeze in the charged hush—her hand still on me, her breath shaky and ragged with want.
Then, without warning, she rolls over to face me, eyes wide, hungry, and a little wild.
She takes a good look at my piercings, eyes full of curiosity. “I’ve never seen this before,” she murmurs, and for a second, I can’t find words.
“Yeah, I got it done on a dare from Alex,” I say, grinning as I watch her tongue run over her lips.
“Of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, but there is humor in it.
My cock twitches in her hand, and when she leans down and licks the drop of precum from my tip, I groan—loud, helpless, the sound ripped out of me.
Oh, fuck. She wraps her lips around the head, her tongue playing with the barbells, and then she slides down, taking more of me in her mouth.
Fuck, she feels so good—hot, wet, and eager, her mouth moving in a steady rhythm that makes my hips jerk.
“Ayla, keep doing that, and the show will be over before it starts,” I growl, voice rough with need.
But she doesn’t stop—instead, she picks up the pace, her mouth sliding up and down, her tongue working the piercings until I’m hanging by a thread.
I fist her hair at the base of her scalp, and she actually groans when I do, the vibration sending a shockwave straight through me.
It nearly undoes me, and I have to pull her up before I cum in her fucking mouth.
“I want to fuck you, Ayla, please,” I growl, my voice thick and desperate, barely more than a rasp in the dark.
For a split second, I catch the way her breath stutters, her eyes flicking up to mine—wide, hungry, and shining with confidence.
She gives me the smallest nod, and it’s all I need.
I move behind her, hands firm but gentle as I lift her hips, feeling the heat radiate off her skin, the way her whole body trembles.
I take a second to run my hand reverently along her spine, memorizing every curve, every shiver.
Guiding my cock to her soaked pussy, I tease her folds with the head, circling, savoring the slick heat, watching her back arch in impatience.
When I finally press into her, I go slow, savoring the way her body yields to me—her pussy gripping me, warm and so fucking tight, the stretch making us both gasp.
I pause, letting her adjust, my palm splayed across her lower back, grounding us both.
Then I start to move, slow at first, then building—my thrusts turning frantic and needy, hips snapping against her as the hunger between us takes over.
The slap of skin, Ayla’s moans breaking the hush, the way she pushes back to meet every thrust—it’s overwhelming, raw, and impossibly good.
I grip her waist tighter, fucking her harder, chasing the wild need that’s been burning in me since the moment I first saw her.
My hand reaches around, fingers working her clit again, and she starts moaning louder, her body arching into every touch.
I feel her muscles tighten, her walls fluttering around my cock, and then she cums hard, crying out my name in a broken gasp that I’m sure everyone can hear, but I don't give a fuck. That’s all it takes; I thrust a few more times before pulling out, spilling thick ropes of cum on her back and ass.
She looks absolutely gorgeous, flushed and wrecked, her skin painted with me, and the sight makes me want her all over again.
I get up, tug my T-shirt over my head, and gently clean her up, careful and tender, not wanting to break the quiet between us.
When I slide back into bed, she curls into my chest, her leg draped over mine, her breath warm against my skin.
I wrap my arm around her, holding her close as exhaustion settles over us.
It doesn’t take long before we’re both drifting back to sleep, tangled together, the world outside fading away—just perfect, for a little while.
Alexander
A deafening crash jolts me awake—a tree limb slams against the cabin, thunder rumbling so loud it rattles the windows.
My clock reads 7:52 a.m., but it might as well be midnight outside.
Lightning flickers in the distance, rain pelting the roof in relentless sheets, wind howling so hard the whole place shudders.
My phone blares on the nightstand: tornado alert.
I leap out of bed, heart pounding, and realize the power’s out.
Grabbing a flashlight from the drawer, I make my way downstairs, beams of light darting over the counters as I set to lighting candles—striking match after match, the scent of sulfur sharp in the air, flame after flame flickering to life as I make my way through the kitchen and living room, fighting off the storm’s darkness.
Stepping onto the porch, I see the real damage.
The road is completely flooded, brown water rushing over the asphalt in a wild, churning current.
The only drive in or out of this place is a narrow bridge—and it’s blocked by a massive downed tree, its roots ripped up and tangled across the bridge, branches sprawled like a barricade.
The water laps at the trunk, the bridge nearly invisible under the flood.
There’s no way out. We’re officially trapped—no power, nothing but the sound of rain and the wild rush of water where the road used to be.
I head back inside, the rain soaking my shirt, and find Ayla in the kitchen, looking adorably rumpled and half-asleep, her hair wild, cheeks pink.
“Coffee. I need coffee,” she mutters, her voice scratchy with sleep.
I light the gas stove with a match and heat some water, brewing by hand what will probably be the worst coffee she’s ever had. Still, she wraps her hands around the mug like it’s the best thing in the world, not even flinching at the taste.