Page 32 of Shattered By Grace

The way he had moved against her, firm and unyielding, his body pressed into hers, dictating the rhythm of every roll of her hips. The heat of him, the raw, intoxicating power he exuded, pulling her deeper into something she had no business craving.

Her fingers trailed down her own body, tracing the memory of his touch.

“Why do you tease me?”

His voice ghosted through her mind, dark and smooth, a dangerous whisper against her ear. She had felt the smirk on his lips, the heat of his breath, the slow burn in his words as they wrapped around her like a velvet chain.

God, his hands.

The way they had gripped her waist, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch, holding her in place as he led her through every sinful movement. His touch had been deliberate, teasing, just rough enough to leave her breathless.

She mimicked the way he had held her, palms sliding over her curves, nails grazing her damp skin. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips.

She could still feel the control, the way he had barely done anything at all, yet unraveled her with nothing more than his presence. His grip. His voice.

Her hand dipped lower, fingers brushing against slick heat, and her breath caught as a jolt of pleasure shot through her.

“Why do you tease me?”

His words curled through her mind, thick with unspoken promise, and she swore she could feel his lips brush the shell of her ear, the warmth of his breath melting into her skin.

Her other hand dragged upward, her palm sliding over her stomach, across the curve of her ribs, before she reached the soft swell of her breast. The water-slick skin was sensitive beneath her touch, her nipple pebbling as her fingers closed around it, tugging, testing her own limits.

A sharp gasp.

Slow, torturous movements, circling, teasing…her body responding as if he were still there, as if she were still lost in the pulse of the music, grinding against him, desperate for more.

She twisted her wrist, rolling her nipple between her fingers, sending another pulse of heat straight to her core. The pressure between her thighs built, tight and demanding, her fingers pressing deeper, chasing that slow, aching friction she had been denied.

Her breath hitched. Her body trembled.

The tension coiled tighter, pleasure cresting higher with every flick of her fingers, every arch of her hips, every rough tugagainst her breast. Every touch was deliberate, teasing, dragging her deeper into something she had no business wanting.

She was close, so close she could taste it.

A low moan slipped past her lips, her head tilting back against the tile as the tension snapped, sending her spiraling into that perfect, fleeting oblivion.

For a moment, she just stood there, panting, letting the water wash away the evidence of her surrender. But even as her body sagged against the shower wall, spent and trembling, the satisfaction was tainted with something else.

A dangerous truth.

Tristan Locke wasn’t just under her skin. He was in her veins.

And no amount of pleasure would ever be enough to purge him.

Chapter Fourteen

The muffled vibration under the pillow dragged Victoria from the edges of sleep. She groaned, fumbling for her phone, squinting at the screen. Five AM. Her stomach dropped at the hospital’s number flashing across the display.

She cleared her throat, forcing her voice into something professional. “Nurse Scarlett.”

“Nurse Scarlett, I’m sorry, but we have an emergency,” Emily from L&D said, urgency sharp in her tone. “Severe fetal distress. Decelerations, minimal variability. Dr. Turner isn’t answering.”

Victoria shoved back the blanket, already on her feet. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes. The mother’s BP is crashing.”

Damn it. “Gestation?”

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