Page 17 of Ranger's Code

He stills.

"For everything," I add. "For not letting me drown."

His throat works. "You’re not a woman who drowns easy."

"Doesn’t mean I don’t get tired."

A pull I’ve stopped resisting draws me forward into his space before I can talk myself out of it. He starts to retreat, but I reach out, halting him with my touch. My hand slides along the length of his forearm, slow and deliberate, my fingertips brushing over the fine dusting of hair and the corded strength beneath his skin. I pause at his bicep, feeling the flex beneath my palm. Warm. Solid. Real. My thumb traces a slow arc along the curve of muscle, and when his breath catches just slightly, it makes mine do the same.

His eyes darken. "Don’t push me, cupcake."

"Or what?" I challenge with a small smile, liking the way he seems just the tiniest bit off kilter.

He growls—not a sound of anger, but something deeper, rawer, a sound pulled from the depths of restraint giving way. It vibrates against my skin, rolls through my chest like a warning and a promise all at once. Then he kisses me—fierce and consuming, like the only way to silence everything between us is with the press of his mouth against mine.

It isn’t gentle.

His mouth takes mine with a force that steals my breath and scatters my thoughts, every movement demanding, every brush of tongue a tease and a claim. He kisses me like a man who’s waited too long and doesn’t trust time to give him another chance. My body responds instantly, hunger blooming low and hot, my hands flying to his shoulders, then sliding into his hair, dragging him closer like I can pour myself into the spaces between our mouths.

My pulse thunders as heat sparks under my skin, curling in places that have ached for this exact touch. I feel his weight, his strength, the hard press of his body lined up perfectly against mine, and it makes me dizzy with wanting. His taste—earth and heat and something uniquely him—fills my mouth, and my knees nearly buckle from the rush of it. There’s no hesitance, no soft exploration—just need and tension breaking all at once, raw and consuming... and it’s glorious.

His hands lock around my hips, dragging me against him like he’s been starving and I’m the first taste of salvation. The press of his body against mine sends a bolt of heat straight through me, my nipples pebbling instantly under my shirt, the ache between my thighs sharpening with a needy pulse. My fingers fist in his shirt, yanking it up with a growl of frustration, craving the heat of his bare skin, the feel of his muscles beneath my hands. The kiss deepens, all tongue and heat, a messy tangle of lips and teeth and breath as he walks me backward with quiet dominance. My back hits the edge of the kitchen counter with a thud, but I barely notice—too focused on the delicious friction where our bodies meet, the way my body melts and clenches under his touch, every nerve ending blazing awake. I feel wild and grounded all at once—like I’m burning alive and don’t want the fire to stop.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my mouth.

"Don’t you dare. I’m clean and on birth control."

His wolfish grin is all I need. We never reach the bedroom; the frenzy of our desire leaves shirts strewn carelessly aside and jeans yanked down in a frantic pulse of need. With a gasp that tears free from my very soul, my head flings back as his mouth discovers the delicate, trembling curve of my breast—a searing heat both commanding and achingly tender. His tongue dances in deliberate, relentless circles around my nipple until my knees buckle, teetering on the edge of surrender. His hands, grounded on my hips, do more than steady me—they claim me as if I’m the sole anchor in a tempest of want. Every subtle scrape of his teeth and fervent suction of his mouth sends blazing currents surging through my veins.

My fingers, tangled in his hair, drive me to arch into him, every nerve ignited by a long-dormant, primal hunger. When he plunges into my depths, I moan his name with raw intensity against the soft expanse of his neck, my breath ragged as if each throbbing beat of need compels me to reach ever farther for him—thick, primal, and wholly alive. Each slow, grinding thrust erodes my resistance, dissolving the fragile line where I end and he begins, until our bodies merge into a fervent tapestry of raw, unyielding passion.

It’s wild; it’s desperate—my legs coiling tightly around his waist, anchoring him as though our entwined bodies are vines caught in an inferno of shared rhythm. His whispered adoration cascades over me like cryptic incantations in a hallowed, fevered sanctuary, while my responses become a symphony of gasps, moans, and fervent invocations—a litany of his name straddling the line between sacred prayer and untamed profanity.

He thrusts up into me, thick and hard, and my breath catches in my throat. The stretch is perfect—deep, delicious, almost overwhelming. I gasp, my hips rising to meet him, needing more, needing all of him. He growls low in my ear, trying to hold back, trying not to lose control. I can feel it in the way his muscles tremble, how tightly he grips my thighs.

But I don’t want restraint.

“Don’t hold back,” I whisper, dragging my nails down his back. “I can take it. I want it.”

His mouth crushes against mine as he pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, making me cry out. He fucks me harder this time—rough, hungry, like he’s starving for me—and it makes me moan, makes me wrap my legs around him tighter, pulling him in even deeper.

The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, along with the wet, obscene noises of him driving into me over and over again. My body welcomes it, slick and eager, clenching around him with every deep thrust. I arch into him, breasts pressed to his chest, my clit grinding against his pelvis with each movement. Every stroke hits that spot that makes me see stars. My moans turn breathless, then ragged.

Every motion unleashes surges of fiery bliss through me, sending my toes curling and my spine arching until every inch of my skin pulses with the incandescent essence of our union. I claw at his shoulders, a silent, desperate plea for more, as the sound of his ragged breath in my ear edges me closer to the precipice until, when I finally shatter, it is not merely pleasure I experience but a surrender so complete it dissolves into a mingling of relief and delirious ecstasy—a deep, soul-stirring connection that defies all my wildest imaginings.

He kisses me as if each press of his lips is a lifeline, an indispensable act in the very fight for existence, every fleeting brush against my mouth a vicious grasp at meaning. My hands roam his body with an almost desperate reverence, mapping each scar and contour like a sacred script written in the language of raw passion and yearning confession. And when I whisper his name once more, it is not just a sound but an invocation of need—a declaration of surrender to something profound that leaves his breath hitching and his rhythm faltering. In that sacred, fevered moment, his whispered reply resounds with every promise sealed in the mingling of skin, breath, and sweat—a vow as intimate as it is ferocious.

His kisses continue throughout it—his mouth never stops moving—rough, desperate, and I kiss him back just as fiercely. I can feel the edge coming, fast and hot, my whole body winding tighter.

Then he adjusts his angle, grabs my hips and slams into me even harder, deeper. I shatter. My orgasm rips through me, sharp and blinding, and I scream his name as my body locks around his cock, milking him. That’s all it takes. He curses against my neck, grips me so tight it almost hurts, and comes deep inside me, thick spurts filling me, his body jerking with every pulse.

He collapses on top of me, still inside, both of us shaking, breathless, slick with sweat. My arms wrap around him, holding him close, not ready to let go. Not ready to come down from what we’ve just claimed.

Afterward, he lifts me into his arms with reverence, my body still trembling against his. His touch remains gentle but possessive, like he’s not ready to let me go—not even for a second. As he carries me through the loft, the air is thick with heat and the scent of us, my cheek pressed to the curve of his neck, my lips brushing the pulse that still thunders beneath his skin. He lays me down with a care that feels like devotion, not duty—his eyes lingering on my flushed face, swollen lips, and the dazed look that mirrors everything in him. No words pass between us. No words are necessary. The silence is full of everything we’ve said with our bodies.

I fall asleep curled against his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the weight of his arm draped protectively over my waist. His warmth cocoons me, anchoring me to something that feels impossibly real in a world that has gone sideways.

But when I wake, the room feels too quiet. The sheets are still warm beside me, a ghost of his body lingering in the indentation where he’s been. The space he occupied so completely now stretches wide and empty. My hand reaches out instinctively, but finds nothing. Just tangled linen and the fading scent of his skin on my pillow.

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