Chapter 4 #2
"I want this." No hesitation. No calculation.
I slide into her in one long stroke, and the sound we both make fills the room. She's tight and hot and her body grips me like it's trying to keep me, and I have to press my forehead against her shoulder blade and breathe through the urge to let go right there.
I pull back and thrust hard, and her hands curl against the wallpaper.
I set the pace. Slow out, hard in, the kind of rhythm that builds pressure without release.
My hand stays between her legs, fingers working her clit in counterpoint to every thrust, and she's shaking, bracing herself against the wall while I take her apart from behind.
"Faster," she says.
"No."
"Grant—"
"You wanted my way." I bite the curve of her shoulder, taste sweat. "This is my way."
She drops her head between her arms and makes a sound that's half sob, half surrender.
I feel her getting close, the way her inner muscles flutter and tighten, the way her breathing goes ragged and desperate.
I speed up. Give her what she needs, finally, driving into her with the wall shuddering under our weight.
"Mine," I hear myself say, the word pulled out of me from somewhere primal and uncontrollable. "Say it."
"Yours." She's breaking apart, her whole body clenching around me. "Yours, yours, God, Grant—"
She comes with my name in her mouth and my hand between her thighs and my cock buried deep inside her, and I feel every second of it, the way her orgasm pulses through her body and drags mine to the edge.
I thrust once more, twice, and then I'm gone, spilling into her with my face buried in her hair and my arms locked around her waist like she's the only solid thing left in a world that keeps trying to shake me loose.
We stay like that, pressed against the wall, breathing hard, my softening cock still inside her. Her legs are trembling. So are mine, though I'll die before I admit it.
Eventually, I pull out and turn her around. She looks wrecked. Flushed from her cheeks to her chest, lips swollen, hair stuck to her neck with sweat. I push a strand away from her face, and she leans into my hand like the contact matters more than anything that just happened.
I pick her up. She wraps her legs around me out of instinct, and I carry her to the bed and lay her down. Pull the sheets over us. She curls against my chest, and the fit of her body against mine feels inevitable. Like I've been shaped wrong my whole life and just now realized why.
"That was stupid," she says after a while.
"Extremely stupid."
"We should probably talk about it."
"Probably."
But she doesn't pull away. She's warm and solid against me, and for the first time since Tyler died, I feel something other than rage and guilt.
I feel alive.
"Grant." Her voice is quiet in the dark. "Why do you really care so much about what happened to Tyler?"
The question catches me off guard. I've been so focused on the how and the who that I haven't stopped to think about the why.
"He was my friend," I say finally. "One of the best people I knew. And he died trying to do the right thing. If I don't finish what he started, what does that say about his sacrifice?"
"It says you're human. That you're not required to throw yourself into danger because someone you cared about did."
"Maybe." I trace patterns on her shoulder. "Or maybe I'm just looking for a reason to keep riding. Keep fighting. Keep existing when part of me thinks I should have been the one in that arena instead of Tyler."
She lifts her head, looks at me. "That's survivor's guilt talking."
"Doesn't make it less true."
"Doesn't make it your fault either." She settles back against my chest. "Tyler made his choices. You're making yours. Those don't have to be the same choices."
"What if I'm making the wrong ones?"
"Then we'll figure that out together."
Together. Partners. Whatever this is between us, it's becoming more than just two people using each other to forget they're scared.
It's starting to feel like something I could lose. And that terrifies me more than any conspiracy or threat ever could.
"We should sleep," I say.
"Should we talk about what just happened?"
"Tomorrow. Let's just. Exist for tonight. Without analyzing or planning or worrying."
"I can do that."
She falls asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out, her body relaxed against mine. I lie awake longer, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how I got here.
Tyler would laugh his ass off if he could see me now. Tell me I'm doing it all wrong. Tell me to slow down, think it through, stop making everything harder than it needs to be.
But Tyler's not here to give me advice. He's gone because someone decided his life was worth less than their profit margin. And I'll be damned if I let that go unanswered.
My phone buzzes. Text from Colt.
Heard about the van. You okay?
I type back:
Fine. Handled.
That's not an answer.
It's the only one you're getting.
He doesn't respond. I don't blame him. I'm being an asshole to everyone who cares about me, pushing them away so I can focus on something that might get me killed.
But I can't stop. Not now. Not when I'm this close to answers.
Rainey shifts in her sleep, and I tighten my arm around her. Tomorrow, we'll deal with the consequences of tonight. Tomorrow, we'll figure out the next move.
But right now, with her heartbeat against my ribs and Tyler's ghost in the corner of every thought I have, I'm starting to understand something I wish I didn't.
The people who killed Tyler are going to come for me. And now they've got one more thing they can take.