Chapter 19
The drive back was quieter than he liked.
The laughter from the pub still clung to him like smoke, but in the silence of the van, it began to feel too loud, echoing in his skull.
He’d caught himself smiling more than once tonight, really smiling, and Clara had noticed.
He’d seen it in the way her gaze had lingered on him, in the tilt of her mouth as though she wanted to tease but didn’t quite dare.
It felt good to laugh again, but also foreign, like it didn’t quite belong.
His experience in Africa had changed him.
More than anyone knew, including Peyton.
There were just some things, some shameful indignities, that he couldn’t acknowledge out loud.
Could barely acknowledge it behind closed doors.
Yet tonight, the hold they’d had on him had shifted, eased its grip.
Now, with the others peeling off to their homes in the valley, it was only the two of them returning to the bunker. The thought sat heavy in his chest. How strange it was to be at once desperately attracted to someone and terrified of that feeling.
The van rumbled to a stop. Cold air rushed in as the doors opened. She walked close to him down the corridor, her shoulder brushing his arm once, whether by accident or intention, he couldn’t tell. Each brush set his nerves alight.
At her door, they both hesitated.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. A little cider, a lot of warmth. “For tonight. For…all of it.”
His throat worked. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t,” she countered. Her voice had a playful lilt now, looser, freer. “You even laughed, Watchdog. I thought that was impossible.”
Heat crawled up his neck. “I laugh.”
“Rarely.” Her smile tilted slyly. “But it’s good on you.”
The air shifted. Thicker. Charged. He could feel it pulling taut between them.
He cleared his throat. “Tea?”
Her laugh was soft, surprised, but she nodded. “Always.”
The ritual steadied him. The familiar steps: filling the kettle, waiting for the click, measuring milk with precision. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory pulling him through while his mind churned. He should have left her at the door to her room, but he didn’t want this night to end.
He handed her the cup, careful not to let their fingers brush. But she reached anyway, deliberately, her fingertips grazing his. Her eyes caught his, steady, curious.
Something inside him buckled.
He turned, retreat already forming on his tongue, when her arms slid around his waist.
He froze.
Her body pressed to his, warm, soft. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, faint but unmistakable. His blood surged, heat roaring through him so fast he felt dizzy.
“Clara…”
Her face tipped up, her lips brushing his.
The kiss was brief, sweet, and hesitant. A thank-you, nothing more. But it stole the air from his lungs, set every nerve ending sparking.
When she pulled back, her forehead lingered near his, her breath mingling with his. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, her lips parted.
The space between them hummed, a live wire crackling.
And then they moved together, as though pulled by the same invisible thread.
The second kiss was nothing like the first. It was wild, frantic, desperate.
His hands found her waist, moulding to the fragile line of her ribs, and he pushed her back against the door with a thud. She gasped into his mouth, her lips opening, and he groaned, the sound rough and unguarded as he tasted her.
Her hands threaded into his hair, tugging, pulling him closer.
The scrape of her nails against his scalp sent heat flooding through him.
He kissed her like he’d been starving, like all the restraint he’d held for weeks of watching her snapped in an instant.
She tasted of cider and warmth, of something sweet he couldn’t name but needed more of.
His stubble rasped against her smooth skin, her tongue tangling with his, hot and insistent. His palm slid lower, gripping the curve of her hip, anchoring her, pressing her closer as though he could fuse her into him.
She kissed him back with equal fire, her body arching into his, her small frame trembling against the solidity of his.
There was nothing careful about it. Nothing strategic. Just raw want, messy and real, spilling over after too long held in.
And God, he didn’t want it to stop.
The kiss burned through him, stripping him raw. He wanted more, God, he wanted everything. The press of her body against his, the way her fingers tangled in his hair, the heat of her mouth.
But then, like a blade, memory cut through the haze.
Hands holding him down. Voices taunting. Pain dressed up as power.
His chest seized. He wrenched himself back, tearing his mouth from hers.
“Clara.” His voice was rough, unsteady. He couldn’t look at her.
She was breathless, lips swollen, eyes dazed with desire. “What is it?”
“I… can’t.” The words scraped out of him. He stepped back, putting space between them, hating the flicker of hurt on her face. “Not tonight.”
Silence stretched, thick with confusion and something unspoken. Then she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, clutching the edge of the door. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
He muttered something, he wasn’t even sure what, and turned, retreating fast down the corridor, each step heavier than the last.
His room was too small, too dark, too full of noise inside his head. He stripped quickly, almost violently, and stepped under the shower.
Scalding water pounded over him, stinging his skin, but it wasn’t enough. He pressed his palms to the cold tile, bowing his head as the steam thickened. Reliving that kiss, the way she had felt under his hands. Soft curves, but firm, smooth skin.
He was hard. Still. His cock was heavy, aching, every pulse a reminder of what had just happened, of her soft body pressed to his, the taste of cider and heat on her tongue. The heavy slumber of desire in her eyes when she looked at him.
And layered over it, unbidden, the memories. Africa. Hands that weren’t hers. The tearing sound of his own breath against a gag. The shame.
His stomach clenched. For a moment, he wanted to vomit.
But then her face cut through it, Clara’s face. The way she had kissed him, not with cruelty or power, but with fire and tenderness in equal measure. Want, but not demand. A choice. His choice too.
His hand wrapped around himself, tentative at first, then firmer, stroking slowly. The sensation was sharp, almost alien, pleasure tangled with guilt, with fear, with desperate need.
He braced himself harder against the wall, his forehead pressed to the tile. Each tug made his thighs tremble, his breath come faster. Steam curled around him, hot water sluicing down his chest, over his stomach, over his fist.
He thought of her lips, parted and eager. The sound she made when he’d pushed her against the door. Her hands in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer.
“Clara,” he choked, the name spilling into the spray.
His release hit hard, tearing through him, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His hand clenched, hips jerking, seed spilling into the water, carried away in rivulets down the drain.
For a moment he sagged against the wall, shaking, utterly undone.
And then the shame curled in.
What kind of man got hard remembering his own captivity? What kind of man couldn’t tell the difference between arousal and violation?
But he’d felt the difference tonight. With her. For the first time since his time in Africa, arousal had come with heat, not horror. With longing, not loathing.
It terrified him.
Because it meant he wanted more.
And he didn’t know if he deserved it.
He stood under the water until it ran cold, until his body ached as much as his mind.
But when he finally dragged himself out, towelling off, one truth lingered stubbornly.
When she had kissed him, he had felt safe.
And that scared him more than anything else, because he wasn’t sure what he had to offer a woman like her in return.