Page 36 of The Sniper

She pushed back, meeting every thrust, her moans muffled into the pillow, her ass bouncing against me.

I reached around, pinched her clit, and she came again—harder, shaking, soaking me, her voice hoarse as she begged my name. I growled, low and feral, lost in her—her heat, her sounds, the way she took me like she’d been made for it.

“More,” she gasped, twisting to look at me, eyes dark with want, and I pulled out, flipped her onto her back again, spread her wide. Hooked her legs over my shoulders, thrust back in, deeper than before, my balls slapping her ass, the bed groaning like it’d collapse.

She clawed my arms, her nails drawing blood, and I fucked her through it—relentless, possessed, every stroke a claim I couldn’t take back.

Her hands found my hair again, tugging, and she pulled me down, kissed me—hot, messy, her tongue tangling with mine as her body tightened once more.

“Noah—I’m—” She didn’t finish, just came, hard and loud, her pussy clamping down, milking me, and I lost it—thrust once, twice, and spilled into her, a groan ripping out of my chest, my vision blacking at the edges.

A pounding roared in my head, fierce and wild, matching the pulse of my cock as I emptied into her, her name a chant I couldn’t stop.

The pounding didn’t fade.

I blinked, chest heaving, and it shifted—not in my skull, outside it.

Knocking. Hard, insistent, cutting through the haze.

My eyes snapped open, and the room spun—dark, cold, empty.

No Hallie Mae.

No tangled sheets beneath me.

Just the hard slab of my bed at Dominion Hall, sweat soaking my skin, my cock throbbing under damp sheets, the air thick with my own ragged breath.

A fucking dream.

I sat up, hands dragging through my hair, chest still pounding like I’d run through hell. My shorts were wrecked—wet, sticky, a mess I hadn’t made since I was a kid—and I laughed, low and rough, shaking my head. Hadn’t had a dream that real, that raw, in years. Her taste lingered on my tongue, her heat still burned in my groin, and my hands flexed, aching to feel her skin again.

The knocking hit harder—Ryker, banging on my door like he’d break it down. “Noah, move your ass! Workout’s in ten!”

“Fuck off,” I growled, voice shot, swinging my legs off the bed.

My muscles ached like I’d actually fucked her senseless—every thrust, every grip replaying in my head—and I smirked despite the frustration clawing at me.

Needed that workout now, bad—something to burn off this fire she’d lit, this need that wouldn’t quit.

I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, stared at myself in the mirror. Eyes wild, jaw tight, skin flushed like I’d been in a fight. Her—Hallie Mae—stripping bare, riding me, wide open, begging for it in her bed. It’d felt real, every goddamn second, and waking up alone was a punch to the gut. I wanted her—real, flesh-and-blood her—under me, screaming my name, clawing my back until I bled. Wanted her blue eyes dark with want, her body shaking as I took her apart.

Didn’t care about her preacher daddy, her purity vows, the rules I’d shatter to get there. I’d had her in my head, fucked her raw in every way I could imagine, and it wasn’t enough. I needed her for real—no dream, no tease, just her, open and mine.

The knocking stopped, and I heard Ryker stomp off, muttering something about me being a lazy bastard.

I grabbed a shirt, shorts, didn’t bother with the mess—I’d deal with it later. Workout was calling, and I needed it—needed the sweat, the strain, something to keep me from driving straight to her place and making that dream real, consequences be damned.

Because I wasn’t done with her. Not by a long shot.

11

HALLIE MAE

Ihadn’t slept.

Not really.

I’d lain awake most of the night, curled in the same sheets that had held me after the date, my body still humming like it remembered every breath, every look. The warmth of his hand on the small of my back, the feel of his mouth at my ear, the weight of his words.

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