Page 297 of Immune

“Move your hand.”

Her eyes narrow.

“No hiding,” I say. “Not from me.”

Something in her face shifts and she drops her hand.

As soon as her mouth is clear, I put my own back on her. She’s beautifully slick and dangerously hot against my tongue, her body opening up to me regardless of the blood and despite the fear. Despite every vile word Davis spat in the hallway. I hold her thigh tighter when she starts to tremble, but not to keep her there. I do it to remind her that she asked, she wanted, and she’s still choosing.

Her hips move, but not much at first. It takes a minute before she starts properly grinding against me, her fingers pulling at my hair while she guides me in sharp little tugs that make heat crawl down my spine. I follow every single signal she sends me. Faster when she pulls. Slower when her breath catches a little too hard. More pressure when she says my name like she is angry at needing it at all.

I don’t rush her, and I don’t tease her. I simply keep my mouth on her until her sounds stop sounding like she’s putting up a fight and start sounding like the sweetest surrender that belongs only to her.

Her leg shakes against my shoulder and her nails scrape my scalp as she pants my name like a damned prayer. “Kaito.”

I answer with my mouth and she shatters. Completely falls apart. Her head tips back, throat exposed, Ewan’s bite visible on one side. Her body tightens hard around nothing, and the sound she makes is raw enough to strip skin from bone.

It’s not pretty, but it’s so much fucking better than that because it’s hers.

I stand before her legs can give out completely and pain lances hot over my side. I breathe through it but Dakota sees anyway. Her forehead presses against my chest and she shakes it slightly.

“For the record,” she says, breathless, “you’re shit at looking after those stitches.”

“In my defense, I didn’t claim I was good at that.”

“You’re also not good at being hurt quietly.”

“What can I say? You’re deliciously distracting.”

She exhales against my skin, an almost-laugh.

Almost.

For a full minute, neither of us speaks. Then she says, “Mat.”

I glance down. “You want the floor?”

“I want space.”

Of course she does. And I’m quick to give her exactly what she wants. I lower us to the mat, but not gracefully. Fuck me, but there’s literally nothing graceful about this anymore.

When she pushes me onto my back, pain explodes along my side. I let out one hard breath hissed between my teeth before I can stop it, and Dakota freezes.

“Nope,” I say immediately. “Not you.”

Her eyes narrow.

“The stitches,” I add.

“Then tell me if I hurt you.”

“Yup. I will.”

“Actually do it, though.”

“Scout’s honor,” I promise, even holding my hand up to show her I mean it.

She studies me for a second, contemplating whether to believe me. That only lasts a handful of seconds before she keeps going.