Page 58 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
I dig fingers into the counter’s edge. “There is nous.”
He smiles, bitter. “Tell your camera that. Whenever I’m in frame, you lower the lens.”
The accusation scalds. I lurch for the door.
He blocks it. “Running again?”
We’re breathing fast, mirrored. Closer. My heel crunches glass.
His thumb swipes my cheekbone. “Say it.”
“...No.”
The kiss isn’t gentle.
His mouth crashes into mine—no sweetness, no hesitation. I bite his lower lip. He growls, hands tearing at my jeans as I claw his shirt up over corded muscle. The fabric snags on his ears.
“Off,” I rasp, yanking harder.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to strip the shirt away. “No more running.”
“Make me.”
He slams me against the wall. My skull meets plaster, but the sting’s obliterated when his palm rubs rough over my clit through damp cotton. I arch, swearing.
“Still hate how I look at you?” His breath scalds my throat.
“Fuck you?—”
“Scheduled maintenance on theHarbinger.” He nips my earlobe. “July ‘09. You wore cutoff shorts. Sprayed me with a hose ‘by accident’.”
My laugh fractures into a gasp as his fingers slip under my waistband. “You tripped the sprinklers at my dad’s funeral.”
“You smiled that day.” His thumb circles faster. “Only time you did.”
I fist his hair, dragging his mouth back to mine. Denim hits the floor. He lifts me—effortless bastard—carrying us both down onto the threadbare rug. Firelight licks his cock as he kicks free of his own jeans. Thick, curved, salt-tanged from the storm.
He braces over me, heat radiating.
I hook a leg around his hip. “Show me what I've been missing.”
He sheathes his cock in one brutal thrust. I choke, nails raking his back, as my pussy stretches again.
“Still cynical?” He pistons deeper, hitting a nerve that whites out my vision.
“Still—ah!—delusional?—”
He flips us, my knees grinding into wool fibers. “Take what you need, Evie.”
I ride him hard, reveling in his choked curses. The storm batters the windows. Sweat drips off his collarbone onto my breasts.
“That compass,” he rasps, hands spanning my ribs. “Still points northeast.”
“Compasses lie near cliffs.” I clench around him, wringing a groan.
“Only if you’re afraid of the drop.” He sits up, mouth latching onto my nipple.
We collapse sideways, limbs tangling. His pace turns frenetic, fingers digging into my hips. The air reeks of sex and cedar smoke.
