Chapter 16 #2
I stand under the spray like it might wash off the day. Like it might scrub away Evie’s razor-edged truth and the way Henry wouldn’t even look at me on the drive home. God, I just want to go home. Pour a drink. Let the silence eat me alive.
“You almost look like a real mom.”
Dallas had said it so casual. So damn offhanded.
Yet—he may as well have cracked my ribs open.
I stay there until the steam fades and the water runs cold, until my skin prickles and my fingertips wrinkle. Then I crawl out, heavy and raw, bracing myself for what comes next. For the Sheriff.
What greets me when I step into the hallway isn’t the cold shoulder or empty silence I was expecting.
It’s him.
Laid out beside his badge, his gun, and the worn leather of his belt—my old sketchbook. The one I swore I'd buried for good. Tattered edges, dog-eared pages, and my favorite pencils tucked beside it like they never left. Like he’s been holding on to them for me all this time.
I freeze. My chest caves in around a breath I didn’t know I was holding. That sketchbook hasn’t seen daylight since the day we buried Daddy. I boxed it up and shoved it in the back of his office like if I didn’t look at it, the grief couldn’t touch me.
But now? Now I’m cradling it to my chest like a lifeline, and god, it hurts how much I missed it.
“You’ve always been shit at saying how you feel,” comes that voice—low, lazy, sinful—dragging over my skin like a slow burn.
I turn, and there he is—Henry. Leaning in the doorway like some God damn storm just passed through him. Hair a mess, dust on his shoulders, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth watching.
“I’m not talking about that polished, cold version of you the rest of the world gets,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I mean the real shit. The stuff that claws at you from the inside. The stuff you bury so deep it’s rotting.”
He closes the distance, every step heavier than the last, and when he’s close enough to touch, he does—just a strand of hair, wrapped slow and possessive around his inked knuckle.
“You think I’ve forgotten how to look between the cracks in that armor,” he murmurs, his voice a rasp against the space between us. “But I haven’t. You’re etched into the fucking blueprint of me.”
His eyes don’t waver. Don’t blink. Just stay on me like the truth hurts less if you don’t look away.
“I know you better than you want me to. I know the only time the noise in your head shuts up is when you let yourself create.”
His hand slides down slow, fingertips barely grazing the curve of my jaw, tracing a path that sets my nerves aflame. That smirk—dangerous, daring, pure sin—pulls at something dark and desperate inside me.
“Let me in, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice rougher now, thick with need and promise. “Stop fighting the fire. You and me both know you weren’t made to smother those flames—you were born to burn.”
Henry Wilder always knew how to cut through my defenses with words that scorched. I’m panting, breath catching like he struck a match and held it right to the fuse inside me.
“You fight me at every turn,” he says, voice low and hungry, “and you have my whole damn life. So much that I crave it now—crave the lick of those flames you keep trying to snuff out.”
He unwinds my hair from his finger slowly, like he’s savoring the feel of it, then lets his hand trail downward—down the slope of my throat, the curve of my breast—until he stops right at the top button of my pajamas.
One touch—just one—and my body betrays me. My nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric, aching and impossible to hide.
Traitorous bitches.
He sees it, of course. The wicked, knowing smile he gives me makes my stomach coil tight.
“I fight you,” I snap, breath shallow, teeth clenched, “because I hate you.”
“No, little viper,” he murmurs, voice dark and full of promise, “we already settled this—you hate that you can’t.”
I swallow hard but refuse to look away. He wants me to flinch, to give him the upper hand, to admit he’s right. But if he’s waiting on that? He’s got a better shot at hell freezing over.
“Whatever you say, Sheriff.”
I let the words drop like a challenge, and he’s already moving—both hands slam down on the dresser behind me, boxing me in with his heat, his power, the barely-there breath between us like a wire stretched tight and ready to snap. His eyes flash—cocky, dangerous, like he’s already won this war.
“Then fucking prove me wrong,” he growls, low and deadly, voice like a promise and a threat rolled into one.
The journal presses hard against my ribs where I clutch it like a shield—like it can hold back the gravity pulling us together, like it can protect me from him.
We’re toeing the edge of no man’s land, and every cell in my body is screaming to jump.
But I’ve spent years building Fort Fucking Knox between us.
I can’t burn all that down now—can’t risk everything I’ve locked away—just because the soppy bitch in my panties wants to cry at the sound of his voice and come at the press of his hand.
“I’m not proving shit,” I snap, pushing past him, desperate for anything normal. I shove open the closet door and drop the journal on the shelf, fingers grazing folded jeans and stacked tees—anything to ground me, anything that isn’t him.
But it’s gone before I can catch my breath.
Henry’s hand is on the journal in a heartbeat tossing it over his shoulder onto the bed. Then he’s spinning me around, closing the space until my back hits the corner of the closet. He’s all muscle and heat and raw intent—my predator and the only one I’ve never had a prayer against.
“My turn, little viper,” he pants, voice thick with something dark and electric, looming over me like sin made flesh.
Even in the dim light, I can see it—that fire raging in his hazel eyes.
And somewhere between the dresser and here, the bastard managed to lose his shirt.
Now he’s all ink and olive skin, every inch of him coiled with heat and ruthless intention.
He looks like exactly what he is—a commanding lawman and a God damn pussy-wrecker.
His eyes trail down my body—slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore. I shift, pressing my thighs together, desperate for even a sliver of relief. Of course, he catches it. Always does. His tongue flicks out, wetting that wicked bottom lip, and something inside him snaps.
Without a word, without warning, his hands clamp around the edges of my pajama top and tear.
Buttons explode off like bullets, clattering against the walls and spilling across the floor.
I gasp, arms shooting up, desperate to cover myself. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
My voice is sharp, furious—but every part of me is already betraying the words. My breath comes quick and ragged, skin buzzing, trembling—not from fear. No. This is want, raw and undeniable.
Henry leans in, breath hot against my skin, voice dripping with wicked intent. “You can lie with your mouth all you want, little viper. But your body’s already screaming the truth louder than you ever could.”
He shrugs, slow and deliberate, like a man ready to break but refusing to show it. “Call it a man who’s finally reached the end of his fucking rope.” His fingers twitch near my arm, dangerous and certain. “Now, move your God damn arm.”
I’m panting like a bitch in heat, but my stubborn streak wins. I keep my arm clamped tight across my chest like it’s armor. Henry doesn’t flinch. If anything, he smirks, like my defiance only fuels him.
“Fuck, keep that up and I’m going to come in my pants before the fun even starts,” he mutters, low and dark. Then without warning, he drops to his knees, yanking my sleep shorts down in one rough, hungry motion—panties sliding right along with them.
I barely have time to react before he snatches my free wrist, keeping me fully exposed—raw and wild and trembling.
“God damn baby”, he groans, gaze locked on my slick thighs like he’s found religion. “You may hate me, but your pussy…Oh, how she weeps for me.”
He rises slow, deliberate—like he's savoring every inch of the climb back to his throne. When he stands, he doesn’t rush, he leans in and licks—slow, filthy—up the column of my throat, a devotion dipped in blasphemy.
One hand drifts over the curve of my thigh, light and torturous, tracing paths that make my knees buckle.
My moan escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth, and my arm falls limp at my side like surrender’s already inked into my flesh.
I’m standing bare as the day I was born, and he drinks me in with those hungry eyes before his mouth crashes down on my nipple—hot, greedy, relentless.
He freezes, chest rumbling with a low, guttural sound that shakes through me when he discovers the silver glint beneath his lips.
“Well, look at that,” he rasps, voice thick with hunger. “A pretty little surprise.”
He flicks one with his tongue, then closes his mouth around it, groaning like it’s a damn delicacy.
I hiss when his teeth graze it—piercings always make me hypersensitive—and he doesn’t let up.
He slaps the other breast, the sting sharp, electric.
Then his mouth’s there too, chasing pain with pleasure like he’s starving for every piece of me.
He’s not soft about it. There’s nothing gentle in the way he handles me—and I like it. Like my body’s been waiting for this exact kind of chaos.
Henry Wilder always knew exactly what to give me, even when I didn’t fucking know myself.
He steps forward suddenly, pushing clothes aside on both sides, trapping me in the tight space.
Never breaking eye contact, he pops the button of his jeans, slow and deliberate, the zipper sliding down with a teasing ease that has my mouth going dry.
“Hands, little viper. Put ‘em the fuck up there.”
I reach out, shaky fingers clutching the clothes rack like it’s the only damn thing keeping me from falling apart.
“That’s it,” he breathes, voice thick with something dark and hungry. “Such a good fucking girl.”
Praise like that—crooked, sharp—hits me like lightning straight to my clit. I swear, I almost lose it right then and there.
“You better fucking not.”
How the hell does he know?
Henry smirks, thumbs flicking at my nipples, making me arch involuntarily. “Ten years later and you still get that same look right before you come. Spent too many nights with my tongue buried between those long legs not to remember.”
Boy did he. We have only had sex once, but younger Henry Wilder’s mouth and fingers were between my legs every chance he got.
He kicks my feet apart like he owns every inch of the floor beneath us, then pulls his jeans down in one brutal, satisfying motion.
“Now, don’t move those hands. You’re going to take exactly what I think you deserve.”
Wait—did this motherfucker just use my own words against me?
It’s tearing at my tongue to fight back—to scream that I’m not some fuck toy, not some prize to be taken. But Jesus Christ, this is the most fucking alive I’ve felt in well over ten years. It sets my blood on fire, dragging the flame higher, hotter, damn near unbearable.
I feel him press hard against me—sharp, urgent—and we both let out a breathless, ragged hiss at the shock of contact. But no, he doesn’t fucking push inside.
“Feet together. Now.” His voice drops into a growl, thick with heat and command, a wildfire consuming everything around us.
I slam my legs shut like a vice, crushing his thick cock between my thighs. His pulse pounds mercilessly right against my clit, a jagged spark that sends my head spinning, my eyes rolling back in a dizzy rush of need.
His hand clamps around my neck—firm, heavy, utterly owning me—with zero mercy. “Don’t you fucking dare close your eyes on me.” His voice is raw, desperate, laced with something feral.
And then he moves.
Slow.
Relentless.
Dragging himself back and forth with the cruelest patience, refusing to sink that thick cock inside me.
“Tell me, does this feel like hate to you?” His voice grits through clenched teeth, the pressure of his hand around my throat tightening, fingers digging in like a warning that could leave marks.
“I said, tell me, Louisiana!” His harsh whisper echoes off the walls—ruthless, demanding, raw.
Instinct flares hot and sharp. I reach up, clamp my teeth down hard on his bottom lip—bite with everything I’ve got, fierce and desperate. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
His massive body shudders beneath me, trembling—caught on that razor’s edge between control and surrender. In that moment, I see it clear: he craves submission as fiercely as he commands it.
Then he laughs—low, guttural, a sound that shakes the room—and without warning, he slams into me.
His hips crash hard, each thrust like thunder, the force shaking the air between us.
I can already feel bruises blooming beneath my skin, fiery and raw.
I clamp my legs shut, grinding against him, fighting to hold myself together even as he devours me with relentless friction.
We’re both spiraling, tightly wound and fraying at the edges.
And neither of us is going to last much longer.
“Oh, baby, listen to how fucking wet you are, this little pussy is starved for me,” he growls into the hollow of my throat, voice rough and ragged, a man on the edge.
He slows his pace to where every pass between my legs I can feel every vein as it brushes against my clit. “Now, coat my cock in your cum, and you better fucking hope it makes a big enough mess,” he growls as he resumes his punishing pace.
Instantly, I detonate against him, like a damn stick of dynamite left too close to a flame.
My body seizes, head thrown back, a gasp tearing from my lungs as wave after brutal wave crashes through me. He grinds against me through it, chasing his own release, until we’re nothing but sweat, skin, and breathless fucking ruin.
Silence rushes in like a slap, heavy and too loud. My chest heaves. My knees feel like they’ll give. And then—
The realization slams into me like a God damn butt fuck with no lube.
Before I can even flinch, he pulls back first. Like he knew it was coming. Like he beat me to the fallout.
He drags a hand down his sweat-slicked face, through his hair, leaving it sticking up in messy defiance.
“Go fucking draw something, Louisiana,” he says, voice low but steady, full of that hard-earned care I never knew I needed. “Don’t shut down. Just—create. You’ve cut yourself off from it for too damn long.”
Then just like that, he turns and walks away—leaving me wrecked, my heart rattling in my chest, and my soul clawing for something I’m not sure how to hold anymore.