Page 11 of Ranger's Honor
I slide my leggings down, peeling them over skin flushed and prickling with goosebumps, toe them aside, and reach for my camisole. Each movement feels like a dare, deliberate and slow. A whisper of invitation I pretend I’m not making. Not just for him. Not entirely for me either. But God, I hope he’swatching. Because somewhere beneath the teasing bravado, there’s something fierce and hungry aching to be seen.
Just... because. Because I know how his eyes track me, and because it’s been a long time since anyone made my heart skip for reasons other than adrenaline and fear.
I slip into a camisole and boy shorts, then crawl under the covers, staring at the ceiling.
I don’t sleep. Eventually, I pad down to the kitchen, lured by the promise of chocolate or maybe just a distraction. I open the fridge and grab the last slice of cheesecake from last week’s girls’ night. Bite one goes in before I even realize I’m not alone.
Dalton leans against the opposite counter, the moonlight catching the hard cut of his jaw and the bare muscle of his chest. For a second, it hits me low and hot—the primal flash of want I’ve been pretending not to feel since the moment he walked through my front door. It’s not fair how good he looks, how steady he is while I’m vibrating with adrenaline and need. Like a shadow given form, bare-chested and silent, he looks carved from something old and elemental, like he doesn’t belong in the soft corners of my kitchen at all.
And yet, he does. Too well. That quiet stillness of his isn't just practiced—it’s who he is. It makes me feel like I’m on display, like he sees everything without giving away a single damn thing himself. I wish he'd say something snarky, break the tension with one of his deadpan comebacks. Instead, he just stands there, unreadable and so painfully composed it makes my bones ache.
"Jesus!" I nearly fling the plate.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry. "Didn’t mean to startle you."
"Do you always move like a panther? Or is that just a special talent you save for creeping up on women in their kitchens?"
"You were making a lot of noise for someone trying not to wake a house."
"I was not."
He shrugs, steps closer. "You always eat cheesecake in your underwear?"
"You always lurk half-naked in the dark?"
"Didn’t realize modesty was going to be a problem."
"It’s not."
We’re too close. The space between us hums, stretches, threatens to snap. I set the plate down—no, I drop it. It clatters to the counter, forgotten.
"Kari..."
I make the first move. Fingertips pressing into the muscular contours of his bare shoulder, I lean in and capture his mouth with mine. Our hungry exchange is reckless, wild, and an utter departure from what we've always been. But it feels inevitable.
His strong hands grip my waist, spinning me to plant me against the cold marble counter. The icy surface bites into my overheated skin, sending shivers racing up my spine. The unyielding smoothness presses into the backs of my legs, anchoring me as my pulse kicks into overdrive.
As we kiss fervently, I feel the rough drag of his jeans rubbing against my exposed thighs, creating a delicious friction that causes me to gasp. His skilled hands roam over my body, calloused palms firmly claiming every inch they touch, making me feel unusually soft and sensitive – as if each nerve ending is bared, craving more.
He presses his body closer to mine with urgency, his mouth hot and demanding as it devours mine. Lifting me with ease onto the countertop, he tugs my legs around his hips and deepens our kiss – bruising and brutal in all the right ways.
"This is a bad idea," he mutters against my lips while unbuttoning his fly.
"Then stop."
He doesn't. Thank God, he doesn't. I know he's clean per Team W protocol, and he has nothing to worry about where I'm concerned.
Our clothing is pushed aside, our breaths transform into desperate gasps for air. With a firm grip on my hips, he thrusts into me in one powerful stroke, eliciting a sharp cry that's muffled by his mouth. He pushes forward with force and precision, stretching me beyond limits and filling me completely.
My head lolls back against the cabinet with a soft thud that goes unnoticed, my senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating, white-hot pleasure coursing through me. Each powerful thrust rocks me against the counter, the marble cold beneath my thighs. My skin sears beneath his iron grip as I cling to him, my fingers digging into his shoulders for stability in a chaos-laden night.
His need is animalistic, growls vibrating against my throat as he moves with a punishing rhythm—desperate, frenzied. It’s as if he’s trying to bury every unspoken rule we’ve lived by, every line we swore not to cross, deep inside me. And I let him. No. I need him too.
Unable to hold back a moan, it reverberates through the quiet kitchen before being swallowed by his unyielding kiss. My body clenches tightly around him, muscles quivering and racing toward an explosive climax. Our exchange is messy, fast-paced, and completely feral—but it perfectly encapsulates us.
The way he touches me isn't gentle; it's all-consuming. I arch into him, fingernails biting into his back as I cry out into the devastating kiss. He drives deep one last time, filling me with a sharp movement that extinguishes my breath and replaces it with searing heat.
Our passionate encounter is swift, chaotic, and rough—everything that it shouldn't be, and yet somehow, exactly what I needed. The way he moved, the way he took me—there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Just pure, undiluted hunger unleashed.
