Page 69

"I'm not going anywhere."

I don't slow down once we hit the interstate. I keep my foot heavy on the gas, every muscle in my body tight from the pressure of the day, the game, the press, the weight of knowing someone out there tried to hurt her in the worst possible way, and that I can’t punch back fast enough to make it right. I keep my eyes fixed on the endless river of headlights, but she's the one I’m actually aware of—the way her hair falls over her shoulder, the faint, deliberate sound of her seatbelt unlatching, the glint of her teeth when she bites her lower lip in concentration.

She doesn’t say anything as she moves her hand across the center console; she just presses her palm down on my thigh like she’s taking a reading on me. I don't flinch, but I do exhale sharply, a warning, because I know exactly what she's doing and I know it's going to unmake me before we’re even halfway home. “Anna,” I manage, but her fingers are already working at the button of my dress pants, efficient and merciless.

I grit my teeth and keep driving, but she’s got me now. She drags the zipper down with a quick, greedy sound and slides her hand in, warm and sure, curling her fingers around my cock like she’s claimed it as her own. I groan, deep and low, and have to fight the urge to slam my fist into the steering wheel because the violence in me wants out, but all she has to do is squeeze, and I damn near black out from how good it feels.

She doesn’t ask permission. She just looks up at me, her eyes all mischief and hunger, and then ducks her head and takes me in her mouth. The heat of it nearly makes me swerve. I grip the wheel so hard the leather creaks under my hands, but the only thing I care about is the feeling of her lips sliding down over me, her tongue working me like she’s memorized the shape of me since the last time, like she’s determined to remind me exactly what I’m dealing with.

I fight to keep my breathing even, to keep the vehicle steady in the lane, but she’s relentless. Each time I try to focus on the road, she pulls me back under—her mouth, her hand, the obscenely sexy fucking wet noise she makes. I glance down for a second—just a second—and see her hair fanned across my lap, her ass up in the seat, her back curved in concentration, and the vision of her like that is almost enough to finish me.

“Jesus fuck, Anna,” I choke out, voice raw. “You’re going to ruin me.”

She pops off just long enough to murmur, “That’s the idea,” lips slick and swollen, eyes pinned to mine in the rearview like a dare. She goes back to it, faster now, her hand twisting at the base, mouth working me deep, and I know I’m not going to last.

I stop pretending I’m in control. I just focus on the road, and the feeling, not just in my balls, but my damn heart that once was shielded to everything surrounding it. I let her take me apart piece by piece.

I put a hand on the back of her neck, not to guide her but just to touch her, to feel the heat of her skin and ground myself in the reality of this moment and not the million fucking nightmares running through my head.

When I come, it’s with a curse, a shudder that wracks my entire body, and she takes it all, licking, sucking, drinking me in until I am bone dry.

She sits up with a small, satisfied smile. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then slides the shoulder strap back across her sexy as fuck body.

We don’t say anything for a minute. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the blood thumping in my ears. Then she looks sideways at me, as if nothing happened.

“You still angry?” she asks, voice sugar-sweet but knowing.

I glance at her, and I can’t help it—I start to laugh. Just a short, rough sound, but it’s real, and it shakes something loose in me that’s been jammed up since that message. I reach over and take her hand, threading her fingers through mine. My chest feels lighter.

“Not at you,” I say.

She squeezes, gently. She must know that’s the whole truth.

Right now it's just me and her, the long dark stretch of highway, and the feeling that nothing can touch us as long as we’re together.

She rests her head against the window, eyes half-lidded, still wearing Gabe’s jersey. I make a mental note to take it off her the second we get inside.

We pull off the highway and I drive us home without incident, but my foot’s even heavier on the accelerator than before.

Inside the garage, I cut the engine and turn to her.

“You’re coming upstairs with me,” I say.

She looks at me like she’s won, because she has. Then she grins, slow and wicked, and says, “You going to carry me, or do I have to make the first move again?”

I don’t hesitate; I get out, round the vehicle, open the door, and scoop her up, ignoring her shriek of laughter as I carry her up the stairs.

We get to the bedroom, and I throw her down on the bed, careful but not gentle, and peel the jersey off her in one motion. She’s all soft curves and fresh bruises, beautiful and so fucking alive.

She looks up at me, serious now. “Daniil?”

I meet her gaze.

“Don’t stop,” she says, voice very small.

I shrug off my jacket, unbutton the top four buttons of my shirt, and pull my shirt over my head. Anna is sprawled on the bed, hair fanned out on my pillow, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide, watching every movement I make. Her chest rises and falls so fast it looks like she might explode if I don't get her off. She’s as desperate as I am, fucking perfect.

She scrambles upright the instant I lean over her, curling her fingers around the back of my neck, yanking me down with enough force that my teeth clack together. I should be gentler. I want to be gentle, but gentle left the building the second I saw her in that hospital bed.