Page 80 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

His arms tighten around me—not possessive, butprotective, almost… tender. One hand brushes damp hair from my face, the gesture starkly contrasting the ferocity he unleashed.

“You okay?” His voice is rough, low, and still breathless.

I nod—barely—then before I can think, before I can stop myself, I fling my arms around his neck, clinging to him like I’ll drown if I let go. My face buries against his throat, the heat of him grounding me, anchoring me in the chaos of what we just did, what I feel.

I nod again, frantic, tears spilling before I realize they’re there. My shoulders shake, quiet sobs tearing free—raw, gasping, real.

Not from pain.

Not from regret.

Just too much—pleasure, release, the intensity of surrender, and the overwhelming crash of being cherished in the most brutal, beautiful way.

His arms wrap around me tighter, one hand sliding up my spine, cradling the back of my head as if he knows. As if he feels it too.

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips against my hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

“That didn’t feel like a fantasy.” The words are shaky, muffled against his skin. It felt like truth.

He pulls back enough to look at me, fingers brushing my jaw, eyes dark and open.

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” he says, voice low, fierce.

AndI believe him.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing—heavy, uneven—the air thick with the aftermath of what just happened. My body hums, nerves still raw, the ache between my thighs a pulsing reminder of him—his strength, his hunger, his claim.

Then, without a word, he pulls back. His hands linger on my hips, fingers tightening like he doesn’t want to let go.

I stay frozen, trying to catch my breath, legs trembling from the force of him. From the way he took me, marked me. My chest still heaves, my heart racing as I force myself to move, pushing up on unsteady limbs.

I barely get my bearings before his hand grips my chin, firm, unyielding. He tilts my face up, forcing my eyes to his. His thumb brushes my swollen lips, slow, deliberate. Almost tender. But his gaze—dark, intense—burns straight through me.

“Watch your words next time, sweetheart.” His voice is low, rough with restraint. “You said something thattriggeredme—made me lose control.” His eyes search mine, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface. “That won’t happen again.”

The air thickens, his thumb pressing harder against my lip, anchoring me, holding me still.

“If this”—his gaze flicks over me, naked, wrecked, claimed—“if this is something you want, something you need later… you’ll have to ask for it.” His voice drops to a growl, the threat and promise wrapped in every syllable. “Until then, be careful what you say.” He leans in, breath hot against my cheek, a final warning wrapped in heat. “Words have power.”

Then he lets go, leaving me feeling the full weight of what happened.

Of what could happen again if I ask for it.

He steps back, leaving me to get dressed, the space between us suddenly cold without him. I watch him, heart pounding, still trying to process everything—the way he stripped me down, not just my body, but my soul. But he doesn’t look back. Just grabs his jacket, shrugs it on, and heads for the door.

As we step outside, the silence between us hums, charged and heavy, yet somehow comforting.

By the time we walk out to the SUV, the air between us is quiet.

Not tense.

Not awkward.

Just … charged.

Like lightning waiting to strike.

I glance at his profile, at the hard set of his jaw, the tension still visible in the cords of his neck. He feels my gaze and turns until I can see the storm still brewing behind his eyes.

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