Page 37 of Unleashed

I arched into him, chasing that unspoken promise, meeting every thrust with one of my own, giving back everything he poured into me. My body knew him, moved with him like he’d set a rhythm only we could hear, a rhythm I didn’t just follow—I claimed it, craved it, held onto it like a lifeline. Like it could keep us tethered. Like it could mean forever.

“Fuck, Lily. You feel so good, baby. Not going to last much longer.”

“I’m there, Jack,” I said on a high whisper. “One more… oh my God, I can’t…”

Words escaped, meaningless and lost, as he ground against me and another orgasm lit me up inside.

As the spasms tore through me, Jack’s hands slid beneath me, locking me against him, his grip unyielding from waist to chest. A raw groan vibrated against my neck, his breath hot, shuddering. I gave in, sinking my teeth into his shoulder, grounding myself in him as he moved, slow and deliberate, drawing out every last tremor of release.

No more thoughts of Malone or episodes or betrayal.

Just Jack’s hands on my skin. His mouth trailing fire down my body. The way he made me forget everything except how perfectly we fit together.

Just this moment, stolen and precious, before reality crashed back in.

Just us.

Chapter Twelve

Viggy

Hockey Rule #33: Actions speak louder than words

Media Rule #33: Spin the story until it shines

Sharpclawsdugintomy chest, followed by a disgruntled “meeeow.” My eyes snapped open to find Bright’s smooshed face looming over mine, his expression ripe with feline judgment. Like I’d personally offended his entire species with my existence.

“The hell you want?” I muttered, still fuzzy with sleep.

The little bastard headbutted my chin, not buying my tough guy act for a second.

With a demanding yowl, his fluffy tail swished back and forth across my bare chest while he stared me down. My mind caught up with reality and facts ticked off like a checklist.

Bright the grumpy cat.

Lily’s apartment.

I’d stayed the night.

Again.

Austin’s nighttime skyline painted shadows on the dark walls of her bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, simple, bare. A slender bookcase and one movie poster, but mostly missing the details that would mark the territory as hers. As if she were merely passing the time, not building a home.

Bright butted against my chin again, kneading my chest like he was one step from making a serious batch of homemade biscuits. I ruffled his thick fur and contemplated leaving the warmth of the bed.

Then a crash from the kitchen brought me upright and I dumped my furry overlord to the mattress. My knee screamed bloody murder as I swung my legs over the edge. The trainers would have my ass if they knew I’d played through practice with it throbbing like this. But for once the constant ache felt distant, secondary to the warmth in my chest at knowingshewas just one room away.

I snagged my boxers off the floor and yanked them on. Her apartment was tiny as hell—three long strides had me in the cramped hallway. Light spilled from the kitchen, along with the unmistakable scent of burning bread.

“Crap, crap, crap.” Lily’s whispered cursing carried crystal clear in the dead-of-night quiet. A pan clattered. “Why is this so hard?”

The sight of her froze me in the hallway, chest squeezing tight. She wore my henley from earlier, the navy fabric barely covering curves I’d spent hours learning with my hands and mouth. Her dark hair was a tangled mess—definitely my fault—and her brows were all scrunched up in that way that meant she was concentrating way too hard on something simple.

“Burning something, Hollywood?”

She whirled around, brandishing the spatula like a weapon, her sea-glass eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be asleep!”

“Hard to sleep through a five-alarm fire.” The smell of burnt toast had my nose twitching, but her in my shirt, all long legs and messy hair, knocked the teasing right out of me. I crossed to her in two strides, gripped her hips and lifted her onto the counter. The move felt as natural as breathing, like we’d been doing this dance for years instead of days. “Let me guess—midnight snack attempt number…?”

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