He went faster, brutal and perfect, the sound of it filling the room. My legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in place. I could feel him getting close, the way his rhythm faltered and the muscles in his back bunched tight under my hands.
He braced himself, slammed into me, and I felt him pulse, hot and deep, filling me up.
He groaned, a raw, guttural sound, and the feeling of him losing control—after all these years of cold, tightly wound discipline—made my body tingle with heat and pleasure.
The sensation of his come flooding me, so bare, so raw, sent a shock through my chest so violent I thought I’d black out.
He didn’t stop thrusting, even as he came, grinding deep and hard until he’d wrung every last drop out of himself, and only then did he collapse on top of me, boneless and shaking, our bodies fusing with sweat and the sticky aftermath of what we’d done.
He stayed there, forehead pressed to my collarbone, breath coming in ragged shudders.
For a minute, I thought he’d passed out, but then he kissed my skin, slow and tender, as if apologizing to every cell he’d bruised.
I held him, arms and legs tangled, feeling the tremor in his body echo back into mine.
We were two animals, spent and sated, gods of our own small, ruined world.
Eventually, he rolled off, pulling me with him, so I was cradled in his arms, my head against his heart. I could see him softening. The slow, reluctant withdrawal, and the sensation of his seed leaking out onto my thighs.
It was filthy, but I loved it, loved that it was proof of what we’d done.
When he finally tried to speak, the words caught in his throat. “I…” He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. “Fuck. You make me wild, Amelia. Every fucking time.”
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe there was nothing to say, not when our bodies had already confessed everything that mattered.
He shifted behind me, gathering me closer, his palm splayed over my belly, thumb stroking the skin just above my navel.
I could feel his heartbeat against my spine, still wild, still not believing any of this was real. The sheets were tangled and damp beneath us, the room a vault for the echo of our cries.
I traced lazy circles over the back of his hand, feeling the small ridges of past scars, the places where he’d been broken and put back together, and wondered at the miracle of him still choosing this, choosing me.
Caiden groaned and pulled me tighter, burying his face in my hair. “I want to stay here forever,” he muttered, and for a second, I believed it.
I drifted, half-asleep in the afterglow, until the air chilled enough that he had to get up and find the scratchy motel blanket. He pulled it over us, his arms hitching around my waist, lips brushing the back of my neck in slow, penitent kisses.
I smiled, eyes closed, letting the heat of his breath and the ache between my thighs remind me I was alive.
For the first time since my mother died, I felt whole. Not healed, but whole, like every broken piece had finally taken its seat at the table.
41
AMELIA
When I woke,the world was blue-grey and silent except for the hum of the heater and the steady thunder of Caiden’s heart against my back.
I tried to move and found myself pinned. The length of Caiden’s arm draped across my ribs, his hand heavy and possessive. His legs were tangled with mine.
My first instinct was to flinch, to brace for the violence that always came after tenderness. But then I remembered last night in a blur of heat and sweat, and the sensation of being pleasured by him.
I relaxed, exhaling into the starched pillowcase and allowing the weight of his body to hold me.
I didn’t feel broken at all. I lay there, letting him anchor me, the memory of his hands and mouth still painting lightning over my skin.
My thighs ached in a way that was almost sweet; I felt the sticky proof of him between my legs and shivered, embarrassed and proud at the same time.
He pressed his lips to the back of my neck.
I could feel him smiling, or at least, smiling in the way that Caiden did.
