10. Holden #2
I slide my free hand down, palming her thigh, my fingers digging in to feel the heat of her skin.
She grinds against me, the pressure of her center lining up perfectly with my cock.
The friction hurts, in a good way, my jeans suddenly too tight and her hips insistent.
I press up to meet her, letting her set the pace, my mouth finding her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the soft indent above her breast. I kiss every inch, savoring each sound she makes, the rhythm of her breath going ragged.
She rocks forward, and her hand finds the front of my jeans.
Her fingers fumble with the button, popping it open, and she tugs at the zipper with a needy whine. “Holden—inside me. Please. I need you now.”
Fuck, the desperation in her voice nearly breaks me. I grab her wrist gently, stopping her. “I’ll give it to you, wildcat—promise. But first, I need to taste you. Missing that sweet pussy grinding on my face, making me drown in you.”
Her breath hitches, eyes darkening with want. “Yes—God, yes.”
I flip her onto her back, settling her against the pillows. She watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I sit up, yanking my shirt over my head and tossing it aside. The cool air hits my skin, but her gaze burns hotter, tracing the lines of my chest, the ink she’s mapped so many times.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, wildcat,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss her throat—soft, open-mouthed presses along the faded bruises, my tongue darting out to lick the tender skin. She gasps, arching up, her hands fisting the sheets. “So damn amazing. I love every inch of you. So fucking much.”
“I love you too, Holden. Oh God. Feels so good,” she whispers, trembling as I lavish the area with slow licks, sucking gently at the edges, turning the sensitivity into sparks of pleasure. “Don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop.”
I groan against her skin, the taste of her—warm, slightly salty from the healing—drives me wild.
It’s not about pain. It’s about claiming it, worshipping the evidence of her strength.
My cock throbs painfully, but I take my time, kissing lower, down her chest, swirling my tongue around each nipple until they’re peaked and she’s writhing.
Finally, I hook my fingers into her panties, sliding them down her legs and off. She’s soaked, glistening in the low light, and I spread her thighs wide, settling between them. “Look at you, dripping for me. Been too long since I had this pretty pussy on my tongue.”
I dive in, starting slow with broad, gentle licks along her folds, savoring her taste, the way she bucks against my mouth. “So sweet, wildcat. Missed this. Grind on me, use my face like you need.”
She does, her hips rolling as I suck her clit softly, tongue flicking in lazy circles, building her up without rushing. Her raspy moans fill the room, hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. “Yes. Right there . . . feels amazing.”
I add fingers, sliding two inside her gently, curling to hit that spot, pumping slow while my mouth works her clit. She’s climbing fast, body tensing, and I praise her through it. “That’s it, wildcat—come for me. So fucking perfect, taking what you need.”
She shatters with a cry, clenching around my fingers, flooding my mouth. I lap her through it, drawing out every tremor until she’s boneless, panting.
I shuck my jeans and boxers, freeing my aching cock, and line up against her entrance. “Ready for me?”
“Yes,” she purrs, pulling me closer with her heels against my ass. “Need you inside me.”
I push in slow, groaning at her tightness. “Fuck, you feel incredible. Taking me so well.” I start thrusting gently, deep and controlled, watching her face.
She meets me head-on, hips rising to every drive, the heat and slickness of her drawing me deeper, melting my intentions into a white static blur.
I brace one forearm beside her head, my other hand gripping her hip as I thrust into her.
It’s not just sex. It’s never just sex with her.
She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls my mouth to hers, kissing me like she’s trying to steal my breath and replace it with her own.
“Harder,” she pants. There’s no hesitation now. No sense of her bracing for the worst. The muscles in her thighs clamp my hips, holding me at the perfect angle, and her nails sink into my shoulders as she rides each thrust with a reckless edge I haven’t seen in weeks.
She grabs my wrist as I piston into her and guides my hand up her body, pressing my palm flat against her throat.
“Wildcat.”
“I said don’t be gentle, Holden.”
Her gaze dares me to squeeze, to give her what she wants, and goddamn if I don’t almost lose it on the spot. I squeeze, gentle but certain, and she shudders beneath me, thighs trembling, lips parted in a guttural gasp.
“Fuck, yes. More,” she groans, her hips snapping up to meet mine, desperate for the edge, the rush, the memory rewritten. The bruises under my fingers, somehow faded and vivid all at once. I want to stop, to be safe, but she wants to take it back and make it her own. I give her what she asks.
She comes again, sudden and violent, a sharp keen escaping her throat as she bucks under me, her whole body fighting for control and then shattering.
My own composure is in its death throes—I can barely hold back, the pressure coiling tight in my balls, her cunt milking me with every aftershock.
When her eyes roll open, damp lashes and a wild look, she’s fucking beautiful. Raw. Alive.
“Come in me, Holden.” The command has all the force of a lifetime.
I give in and let myself fall, cock buried to the hilt, my hand gentle but firm on her neck.
Her name tears from my throat as I explode inside her, the world condensing to violet flashes behind my eyelids and the twin heartbeats of our bodies against each other.
After, she’s weak, boneless, clutching me to her chest, her nails dragging soft lines down my back. I ease my hand off her throat and stroke her jaw with my thumb, tracing her lower lip.
“You good, wildcat?”
She laughs—hoarse, breathless, the sound buzzing through us both. “Better than good. I feel like myself again.”
Her legs tangle with mine. Her face presses into my shoulder, lips damp and smiling against my skin. She gives a shivering exhale, like it’s the first real breath she’s taken since that night. I collect her whole, gather her up tight, my arm a barricade and a promise all in one.
For a long time, we don’t say anything. The sweat cools on our skin. Her breathing slows, her body going heavy against mine, and I pull the covers up over us with one hand, tucking them around her shoulders.
I’ve arrested men who killed their wives. Sat across from them in interview rooms and watched them cry and say I loved her, I loved her so much. I always thought, no, you didn’t. Because love doesn’t end with someone on a slab. Love doesn’t leave marks that need explaining.
But lying here with her heartbeat against my ribs, I understand something I didn’t before.
Terror. The knowledge that someone you love is walking through a world that wants to hurt them, and you can’t be everywhere, can’t stop everything, can’t build a wall high enough or wide enough to keep it all out.
I was afraid. I am afraid. Every hour of every day since I heard that call over the radio and dialed Micah’s phone.
“She’s not breathing, Holden, she’s not breathing!”
I’ve been shot at. I’ve stared down men with nothing left to lose. But nothing—nothing—has ever come close to the drive to the hospital that night, running reds, not knowing if she was alive or dead.
I almost lost her.
I have never wanted to kill more than I do now.
The urge thrums, gentle but insistent, like a headache behind the eyes or the slow burn of a fever.
It’s not about justice anymore. Not really.
I want to make someone hurt the way I hurt.
I want some motherfucker on his knees, weeping, begging for a different sentence than the one I write in my head every time I look at her.
I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in.
“Don’t leave,” she says, lips pressed to my collarbone. Half asleep, a little slurred.
“I don’t plan on it.”
I hold her until her body relaxes, her breathing slow and steady, the post-orgasmic calm smoothing all the tension out of her frame. My brain won’t relax.
Before I know it, the clock on the nightstand clicks to 2:11 a.m.
She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer. Her breath is warm and even.
Alive. Here. Mine. Ours.
I press my lips to the top of her head and close my eyes, willing myself to rest.
I’m going to find him. And when I do, he’s going to wish he’d never learned how to tie a knot.
I’m almost under when the buzzing pulls me back.
Not my phone. Hers. It’s sitting on the nightstand, face-down, vibrating against the wood with an angry little rattle. Sage doesn’t stir.
I shouldn’t look. It’s her phone. Her privacy.
I’m not Milo.
It buzzes again.
I reach over her carefully, sliding the phone off the nightstand. The screen lights up and I see the preview before I can stop myself.
Unknown
How’s the throat?
Bet it would have hurt less if you’d let me fuck it.
The room tilts. For one full second, I don’t breathe. Don’t think. Don’t do anything except stare at the words on the screen and feel something black and ugly rise up from the base of my skull.
I type before I can stop myself.
Sage
Who the fuck is this?
Unknown
Don’t you know? Silly Sage. You thought you killed me? Guess again, bitch.
A contact card drops into the chat with a name and a photo:
Brock Davis.