Page 37 of The Tracker

He entered her slowly, teasing her with every inch—just the thick, swollen head at first, nudging her open until her hips twisted and her nails scored his back in hungry, desperate lines. He held himself there, just inside her, making her feel the stretch, the sweet ache of anticipation, his breath rough against her mouth.

Evangeline whimpered, writhing beneath him, her thighs trembling as he finally drove deeper. She was so slick, so wet, her heat drawing him in, the velvet grip of her body clenching and fluttering around his cock. She arched up to take him fully, greedy and wild, every muscle straining to pull him deeper, to keep him locked inside as he began to thrust—slow at first, then faster, harder, grinding deep until every shudder rocked her to her core.

The friction of his length dragging along her sensitive walls, the obscene slick heat, the rhythm building, stole the air from her lungs as she gasped his name, over and over. He buried himself to the hilt, holding there, letting her feel every inch, the fullness, the claiming—her whole body vibrating with need, sensation razoring through her until she was shaking beneath him, lost in the merciless pleasure of being utterly, completely his.

He set a slow, grinding pace—each movement deliberate, stretching her, forcing her to feel every inch, every claim. Their bodies tangled together, legs locking, hands roaming, mouths meeting in hungry, messy kisses. Sweat beaded along their skin, the room filling with the scent of sex and need and something deeper—something that tasted like home.

She clung to him, nails scraping down his back, crying out with each thrust, not from pain but from the overwhelming sensations. “Dawson—” His name was a plea and a promise.

He sped up, chasing her cries, each thrust a deep, relentless demand—her pleasure cresting and breaking in waves. The rhythm grew wilder, their bodies colliding with a ferocity that sent sharp slaps of skin echoing off the loft’s bare walls, the space pulsing with the scent and sound of their union.

Her heels dug into his back, spurring him on, and she arched up into him, breath coming in ragged gasps, hair fanning wild across the sheets as he drove her higher. Her climax took her like a storm—rippling up from her core, locking her muscles around him, a sharp, helpless sob wrung from her throat.

The rawness of it, the surrender, the wild, sensual abandon—it tore through her, flooding her veins with heat and relief as she came, body shuddering, clutching him inside, unable and unwilling to hold anything back.

He watched her come undone—her body bucking, mouth open in a silent cry, every muscle clamping down on him.

He gripped her hips, burying himself to the hilt, pride and hunger twisting together as he held her through the shudders. His own climax ripped through him, white-hot and overwhelming, a fierce, guttural growl breaking from deep in his chest as he thrust harder, the world narrowing to the violent, exquisite ecstasy of losing himself inside her. He emptied himself with a raw, desperate need, every pulse a promise he couldn't put into words—pouring everything he was into the one place he’d ever felt truly wanted.

When he finally collapsed against her, their sweat-slicked bodies fused in the heat and aftermath, he felt hollowed out, ruined, and utterly whole.

For a moment, all was quiet but for the ragged sound of their breathing. He collapsed beside her, dragging her into his arms, sweat cooling between them as her heart raced against his chest.

She shook in his hold—not from cold, but from everything she’d been holding in, everything she could finally let go.

He pressed his mouth to her hair, breathing her in. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “All the pieces, all the wreckage. I’m not letting go.”

She clung to him, face pressed to his throat. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Just… don’t.”

He held her tighter, letting the world shrink to just this: skin on skin, pulse on pulse, the knowledge that here, at least, they were safe. For now.

Dawson stayed beside her for a long time, holding her through the aftershocks, feeling her heartbeat slow. In the hush, Evangeline whispered, “Do you ever regret stepping into my mess?”

He shook his head. “You’re not a mess. You’re the reason I want out of the shadows.”

For a while, they lay in silence, breath mingling, skin still humming with adrenaline and need. When she finally dozed against his chest, Dawson checked his phone.

One message. Jesse again.

JESSE: Surveillance footage wiped. Entry logs scrubbed. Someone inside helped.

Dawson’s jaw clenched.

“Trouble?” Evangeline asked, her voice low.

“Yeah.” He met her gaze. “We’re not just dealing with a frame job. We’re up against someone who knows exactly how to cover their tracks. And they’re still inside.”

She leaned back, eyes sharp. “Then let’s find out who wanted me framed.”

She started pacing, that restless energy coiling in her spine again. “I want access to the board’s travel logs and Peter’s last week of communications. No filters. No corporate handlers.”

Dawson watched her with a mix of admiration and wariness. “You planning on storming the executive suite with a laptop and a glare?” He crossed his arms. “You’re not an investigator, Evvy. You’re PR. I’m the one with the training—and the gun.”

She turned, fire dancing in her eyes. “PR might not come with a holster, but I know how to corner a narrative and bury a bastard in headlines. So yeah—if I have to push, I’ll push hard.”

He didn’t smile. But damn if his heart didn’t beat a little easier hearing that fire in her voice again.

“Tomorrow, we start digging.” He didn’t say the rest out loud, but it hung there between them: Langley had motive, Squire had access, and they had someone on the inside with technical skills to scrub the trail clean.

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