Chapter 15 #3
I pull off. My jaw aches. My lips are wet.
I reach for the lube on the nightstand — the same bottle from the garage, because apparently Trevor Hollander is the kind of man who plans for contingencies even when the contingency is his stepbrother climbing on top of him — and slick my fingers, work him open while I stroke him, his cock hot and heavy in my hand, and the sound he makes is the kind that could end me in the wrong context, which this is absolutely the wrong context, and I don't care. I don't fucking care.
I push into him slow. He's on his back, one knee hooked over my arm, and I watch his face the whole way in — the clench of his jaw, the flutter of his lashes, the moment the stretch tips from burn into something else.
He takes it. Jesus, he takes it, his head pressing back into the pillow, a hissed breath through his teeth I feel more than hear.
"You alright?" Wrecked. Sweat running down my spine, my shirt gone somewhere, his skin hot under my palms.
"Yes." His hand finds mine where it's braced on the mattress beside his head. Grips it. Our fingers lace, knuckles white. "Harder."
I give him harder. Each thrust driving up into him, the headboard knocking a rhythm against the plaster that would wake the dead if the dead weren't already awake and watching, and Trevor comes with my name in his mouth and his body tight around me and his hand crushing mine into the mattress like he's afraid one of us might float off if he lets go.
Before either of us has caught our breath, he's moving — rolling me, reversing us, his weight settling over me from behind, his cock still half-hard against my ass, and the words come out before I've decided to say them: "Your turn. Fuck me. Now."
He doesn't hesitate. The bottle again, his fingers pressing into me, working me open with a focus that belongs to another lifetime, and the stretch burns and the burn is good, specific, something to focus on besides my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the elation of Trevor Hollander's big fucking dick pressing into me inch by inch.
"Jesus Christ," I hiss. My forehead drops to the mattress, my knuckles white in the sheets, his hand on my hip holding me steady, his chest against my back, his breath hot on my neck. "Fuck. Yes. There. Right there."
He sets a rhythm. Not gentle. Not slow. The kind that comes from a place deeper than tenderness — desperate, hungry, ten years of want translated into each thrust. I match him.
Dare him. Push back and take him deeper than I thought I could, and the fullness of it, the stretch and burn of him inside me, is so fucking good I can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but feel it radiating out from my core until my whole body shakes with it.
I come with his hand on my cock and his mouth on my neck and his hips driving into me hard enough that the headboard slams the wall in a rhythm that'd be embarrassing if either of us had the capacity for embarrassment right now, which we don't, because the capacity for anything but this — the sweat, the grapple, the hurt, the pleasure — checked out three thrusts ago and isn't coming back.
Trevor's cock throbs hard inside me and he grunts against my ear, filling me with his cum while he strokes me through it even though I've already come, and every cell in my body is alight, every nerve on fire — the pulse of him inside me, the wet heat spilling into me, the sweat of us — all of it making me dizzy.
We collapse onto the narrow bed. Trevor on his back, one forearm across his eyes, chest heaving.
Me beside him, staring at the water-stained ceiling, the brown map of Pennsylvania weather that's been there since before I left and will probably be there after I'm dead.
My body feels wrecked. Used. Good in the way that only comes after sex that walked the line between fucking and fighting and decided the line wasn't worth respecting.
The house is quiet. No oxygen machine. No Eileen. Just the kitchen clock ticking downstairs and the faint hum of the refrigerator and the quiet that comes after two people stop pretending the distance between them is something either of them wants.
I sit up. Elbows on my knees. Hands hanging loose between my thighs.
My breathing slowing, settling, finding a rhythm that might, with time, approximate normal.
The fear is still there. Right behind my sternum where the adrenaline used to be.
The cold weight of knowing someone in the department is watching me, steering witnesses off, closing doors before I can get a foot in.
The knowledge that Hannah Brooks is out there, three weeks into the same withdrawal that came before two disappearances, and every door I knock on gets slammed by someone with a badge, and the arithmetic of that is simple and brutal and doesn't care how good Trevor Hollander's dick feels inside me.
Trevor doesn't say anything. He shifts on the bed beside me. His hand finds the space between my shoulder blades — palm flat, warm, the solidity of him, which is its own language and one I've been trying not to learn for twenty years — and leaves it there.
I don't pull away.