CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Shoomaker sits close enough that the mattress dips beneath his weight, the space between us pulled taut like a wire ready to snap.
“You can have a new life,” he says. “A new name.”
“A new name,” I repeat, my voice low, tired. “Funny. I’ve had so many names, I’m not sure I’d recognize myself in another one.”
Shoomaker doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me—really looks at me. Like maybe this is the last time he’d be able to. Like he is memorizing every freckle, every hollow, every scar.
“You don’t have to run anymore,” he says after a beat. “You could stay. Not here, maybe. But close. Safe.”
“Safe,” I echo. “You keep saying that like it’s a real thing.”
“It is, Starling.”
My name sounds different in his mouth. Like a vow. Like it matters.
I shift slightly, the blanket slipping just enough to bare my shoulder, and his eyes follow the movement—hesitant, heated, yet very conflicted. He doesn’t touch me.
But I want him to.
“You used to terrify me,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “That mask. That voice. You made me feel small.”
“And now?” He asks, his voice almost broken.
“Now…” I meet his gaze. “Now I don’t know what to feel. You saved me. You protected me. You touched me without ever really touching me.”
Shoomaker’s jaw ticks, like the weight of all he never said is pushing up behind his teeth.
He leans in slowly, cautiously, like a man reaching for something he has no right to want.
“You can stop me,” he says.
I don’t.
So he keeps going.
His hand lifts to my cheek, fingers barely grazing my skin. A breath passes between us. One heartbeat. Two.
Then his lips brush mine.
Not a kiss.
A question.
And when I don’t pull away, when I lean into that impossible space and press my mouth to his like it is the only truth I know anymore—that’s when it becomes real.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Like a fuse catching fire.
His hand tangles in my hair as the kiss deepens, still restrained but shaking with everything unspoken between us. I taste the weight of his guilt. The rage he swallows. The control he tries so damn hard to hold onto.
I kiss him like I am unraveling.
And he lets me.
The air thickens between us, charged with something neither of us dare to name aloud. His hand slides from my cheek down the curve of my neck, tracing a path that ignites every nerve.
I swallow hard, the fire building in my belly as his lips move to the sensitive hollow beneath my ear, breath warm and teasing.
“I never stopped thinking about you, Starling,” he murmurs against my skin.
I shiver—part fear, part want—caught in the pull of his promise and the ghost of everything we’ve both survived.
His other hand slips beneath the blanket, fingers tracing the line of my shoulder, the bare skin exposed when I’d shifted earlier.
I don’t pull away. I let him explore, each touch a silent question, each brush of his fingertips a promise.
Shoomaker’s mouth finds mine again—this time deeper, demanding, and I melt into him like I’ve been starving for this heat my whole life.
His hands roam, rough but careful, unbuttoning the top of my nightshirt with deliberate slowness.
I inhale softly when his palms press against my ribs, sliding lower, memorizing every inch of me as if he can make me whole with just his touch.
Every barrier I’d built shatters beneath his hands.
His voice drops to a husky whisper, “Let me show you you’re more than just a survivor.”
The bed creaks beneath us as he lowers me against the sheets, his lips never leaving mine.
Fingers tangle in my hair, tugging gently, urging me to surrender.
I wrap my arms around him, holding on as if letting go would mean losing myself forever.
Every kiss, every touch is a battle between control and surrender.
And for once, I don’t want to win.
Shoomaker’s lips trail from mine down to the curve of my neck, planting heated kisses that make my skin flush and pulse beneath his mouth. His hands are firm and sure, sliding into the open nightshirt, fingers grazing my ribs and slowly moving lower, awakening every nerve along the way.
I arch into his touch, breath catching as his fingers trace the outline of my waist, pulling the fabric down and over my hips. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver—not from cold, but from the raw electricity pulsing between us.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and filled with a fierce tenderness “You broke a rule, Starling, no underwear,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent.
My hands tremble as I reach to undo the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin beneath my fingers. His chest is taut with muscle, scars telling stories of battles fought—just like mine.
“Then punish me, sir,” I choke out.
He groans softly when my hands slide under his shirt, fingers tracing the planes of his body. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for, Starling,” he whispers, voice thick with desire.
His lips find mine again, deeper, more demanding. His hands grope my breasts and I flinch as his fingertips brush my nipples, eliciting a shock of pleasure that spreads through me like wildfire.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as his mouth trails down my collarbone, between my breasts, until his lips brush my hardened nipple. The sensation is electric, and I cry out softly as he suckles, his tongue swirling in slow, exquisite circles.
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, seeking permission, and I give it without hesitation.
His hand glides down with aching reverence, tracing the silken curve of my waist like a man worshiping sacred ground.
He slips beneath the delicate waistband of the panties I was never allowed to wear, his fingers finding the slick, molten heat that has been burning for him alone since the moment he entered the room.
Every slow, deliberate stroke sends white-hot waves of pleasure crashing through my veins, and I arch into him, trembling, desperate, aching to dissolve into his touch.
Shoemaker’s mouth claims mine in a deep, devouring kiss—raw, hungry, and full of unspoken promises—as his fingers slide inside me, curling with devastating skill, stroking that perfect spot until my vision blurs.
I gasp against his lips, nails digging into his shoulders, my entire body tightening like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point.
Each thrust of his fingers pulls me deeper into an ecstasy I had buried long ago, awakening every starved inch of my soul.
He pulls back just enough to breathe the words against my swollen lips, his voice low and rough with desire:
“Let me take care of you, my love. Let me worship every broken piece of you until only pleasure remains.”
The world ceases to exist. There is only him—his heat, his breath, his heart thundering against mine.
As his hands and mouth explore me with reverent hunger, I feel the heavy chains of my past shattering, replaced by a fierce, all-consuming fire that burns away everything but us. In his arms, I am reborn.
With slow, deliberate possession, he eases the last scrap of fabric down my trembling legs, baring me completely to his gaze.
Cool air kisses my fevered skin, but it is nothing compared to the scorching intensity of his stare.
His fingers trail up my inner thigh in a feather-light caress that makes me whimper and part my legs wider, offering myself to him without hesitation, without shame—only raw, desperate need.
I am his.
And in this moment, he is my entire universe.
Shoemaker dips his head, his breath hot against my skin as he presses a slow, reverent kiss just above my hipbone, like a vow sealed upon my body.
His mouth trails upward in a torturously languid path of open-mouthed kisses, each one searing deeper than the last, setting my entire soul alight.
Every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth, leaves trails of liquid fire racing across my skin.
When his mouth finally descends to the aching center of my need, I cry out, my back arching sharply off the bed.
His tongue strokes over me with devastating hunger—slow, deliberate circles that make my thighs tremble violently around his shoulders.
He devours me like a man starved for the taste of heaven, savoring every drop of my desire as if it were sacred.
My fingers plunge into his hair, gripping tightly, pulling him closer as desperate, broken moans spill from my lips.
Waves of blinding pleasure crash through me, building higher and deeper with every skillful flick and thrust of his tongue.
His fingers join the sensual assault, sliding inside me with perfect precision—curling, stroking, claiming—coaxing every hidden nerve ending to life until I feel like I might shatter from the overwhelming intensity of it all.
He doesn’t just touch me.
He worships me.
He consumes me.
And I surrender completely, lost in the burning devotion of his mouth and hands.
When he finally enters me, it is with one determined thrust—deep, sure, and devastatingly complete.
A raw, broken moan tears from my throat as I feel every thick inch of him stretching me, filling me, claiming the last untouched part of my soul.
The sensation is so intense, so perfect, that tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Shoemaker stills for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt inside me, his forehead pressed against mine as we both struggle to breathe. His body trembles with the effort of holding back, every muscle taut with restrained power and aching reverence.
Then he begins to move.
Each thrust is fierce yet impossibly tender—a perfect, devastating blend of strength and worship.
He rolls his hips with purpose, stroking against that deepest, most sensitive part of me again and again, as though he’s determined to heal every hidden wound with pleasure.
He doesn’t just fuck me. He cherishes me.
He adores me with his body the way others only ever have with empty words.
I arch up to meet him, desperate and wild, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Our rhythms merge into one burning dance of skin, breath, and heartbeat. The electric heat between us is unbearable, exquisite, consuming.
His breath grows ragged against my ear. Then he whispers my name—soft, hoarse, and full of raw emotion.
“Starling,” he breathes, his voice thick with want, “You’re mine.”
I shatter around him, clenching tight as wave after wave of blinding pleasure crashes through me. He follows me over the edge with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself as far as he can go, holding me like he will never let me go again.
In that moment, nothing else exists.
Only him.
Only us.
Only this fire that has burned away every shadow between us.
The world falls away—there was only this, only us, only the fire burning between us.
The heat between us spirales higher, every touch, every sigh pulling me deeper into Shoomaker’s hold. His hands roam my skin like he is memorizing every inch, his lips claiming mine with desperate need.
I am falling—falling into a storm I don’t want to resist—when suddenly the door swings open.
“Garrett—” I gasp, his name rising like a prayer, about to tear from my lips in a broken cry—
The door flies open with a violent crash.
Montgomery stands there, silhouetted by the harsh light spilling in from the hallway. His eyes lock onto us—on me, flushed, naked, and spread beneath Shoomaker, and on Shoomaker still buried deep inside me, hips frozen mid-thrust.
For a single, suffocating heartbeat, the entire room freezes.
“Starling.” Montgomery’s voice is low, rough, and edged with something raw. “Don’t.”
The tension snaps like a live wire—sharp, electric, and dangerous.
Shoomaker’s hand tightens possessively on my hip, his body still trembling with restraint.
His jaw clenches as his gaze snaps to Montgomery, eyes burning with silent fury and unmistakable warning.
He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move. He simply stays buried inside me, chest heaving, every muscle coiled like a predator ready to strike.
I’m still pulsing around him, teetering on the razor’s edge of release, my body screaming for the climax it was just denied. My breath comes in shallow, desperate pants as I stare at Montgomery, caught between unbearable pleasure and the sudden, shocking intrusion.
The air is thick with unspoken threats, jealousy, and raw desire.