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I kiss her jaw, then the hollow under her ear, then lower still, dragging my tongue down the column of her throat until she gasps and digs her nails into my scalp. I can feel each shallow breath shudder through her.

She whimpers, quick and high. “Daniil,” she says, voice flat and choked, not a question or a command, just my name stripped of its armor.

She claws at my shoulders, at my back, anywhere she can reach. She’s clawing at me, trying to hold tighter, and I don’t care. I want her to mark me, to draw blood if she has to, because god knows I’d do the same for her.

“Don’t baby me,” she whispers, and I almost laugh, almost.

I kiss lower, dragging my tongue along the edge of her ribs. She moans loudly, and I feel it reverberate through her whole body. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, guiding me. She’s shaking now, but it’s not fear; it’s need cloaked with anticipation.

I mouth my way down her stomach, slow enough to make her curse at me, then back up again, refusing to be rushed. She arches into me, thighs clamping around my waist like a vise. Her hips buck, and when I finally bury my face between her legs, she cries out in curses, fisting the sheets, shoving her fists into her own mouth as if she has any intention of muffling herself.

I work her until her legs tremble, until she’s writhing and screaming my name, until there’s nothing left in her but pure, reflexive need. When she comes, it’s not pretty or delicate—it’s raw violence, her nails raking my scalp, her body locking up so tight that for a second I wonder if she’ll ever let go. I sure hope not.

She pulls me up and kisses me, tongue rough and greedy, tasting herself on my lips.

“Now,” she growls, and there’s no mistaking it as anything but a command.

Her hands are everywhere—at my waistband, shoving down my pants, digging bruises into my hips. I barely manage to kick them off before she’s yanking me down on top of her, and the heat between us is so intense it feels like we’re fusing together at the seams.

I slide into her in one brutal motion. She gasps, head thrown back, and wraps her legs around me, locking her ankles at the base of my spine. She’s so fucking tight it hurts, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right there. I start to move, slow at first because I want it to last, but she bucks up, meeting me thrust for thrust, all pretense of patience gone.

We fuck like we’re trying to erase outside this room, well at least I am.

Every time I start to slow down, she drags her nails down my back or bites my shoulder until I pick up the pace. She’s relentless, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sounds she makes are obscene, echoing off the walls. I want to memorize every one. Her body tenses, then shudders, then tenses again, and I know she’s close. I reach between us and press my thumb to her clit, and that’s all it takes. She cries out, clamping down around me so hard I nearly see stars, and I come seconds later, buried as deep inside her as I can go.

For a long time, I can’t move. My head is spinning, my chest feels like it’s been caved in. She pulls me down beside her, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and tangling her legs with mine. We’re both slick with sweat and shaking, totally spent.

We lie there in silence, just breathing. Her fingers trace lazy spirals on my chest, then up my neck, and she toys with a strand of my hair, twisting it around her finger. I watch the ceiling, but I’m not thinking about anything except her. The way she fits against me, her heartbeat slowing in time with mine.

When she finally rolls over, I reach out and pull her back, spooning her against my chest, holding her so tight I worry I’ll bruise her all over again. She lets me, melts into me. Her breathing steadies, and gradually, the tension leaks out of my shoulders. The world outside—the games, the threats, the memory of her crumpled on the stairs—shrinks down to nothing.

We fall asleep like that, limbs tangled, skin pressed tight, and it is everything.

I wake to the sound of her voice, and hear words that I do not want to fucking hear.

CHAPTER 13

TRANSATLANTIC

Anna

Isink into the pod’s leather; my thumb finds the recline button, a smooth dip in the armrest. The flight attendant—efficient, polished—has already been by with champagne, taken my coat, and explained the seat controls, as if I’ve never sat here before. I thanked her. She was sweet not to ask if I was okay, even though I'm sure it’s written all over my face that I am not. I stow my carry-on, knowing I won’t be doing any reading, and turn to the window.

Outside, the tarmac shines wet under a flat gray sky. Ground crew in those orange high-visibility vests, once a fashion trend, or, in my opinion, a nightmare, move like ants around the massive wing. A fuel truck rolls past, its yellow beacons moving to the next airplane carrying travelers wherever they may be going. Unlike me, I hope they’re excited.

I should sleep since my body has been exhausted lately, in the best possible way. The flight’s long—plenty of time to drift off before Germany pulls me back under.

But I don’t. I watch the rain-beaded glass and replay it all in pieces: Rez’s face when I said I was leaving. The next day an epic marathon of kisses, and licks, and yes, another hockey game where I got to watch a man I was incredibly attracted to play. And last night, we didn’t sleep. Zero regrets. The way he kissed me—hard, like a promise—before

I climbed out of his car. Him saying he’d call. I want to believe it.

The attendant circles back. “Anything else before we depart?”

I shake my head, no champagne, not yet, and thank her again. Settle deeper.

This pod is built for privacy, and right now, I need that. I need to get swept up in watching the world without being in it. Doesn’t stop the thoughts. My mother’s voice slices through, hours old and still sharp. You need to come home immediately. If you refuse, I will fly to Chicago myself. That was the third time she threatened the same thing, and I know that’s the final time before she acts, it always has been.