Page 107 of Hellbent
He moves slowly, rhythmic and tender. I slide my hands up his back, over the muscles of his shoulders, down to the small of his back where I can pull him closer. He groans into my neck, and I feel it vibrate all the way through me.
His kisses are slow, lips trailing over my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. My body shivers under his touch, every nerve tuned to him.
I arch into him, and his rhythm deepens. I feel my orgasm coming again. He moves with me, guiding me toward it with the kind of focus that borders on devotion.
When I come, it rises slow and deep, spreading out from my core, radiating out through my limbs. I tighten around him, breath stalling, nails digging into his back, and hold on like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this earth.
He lets out a low, guttural groan, and deep inside of me, he pulses as he comes. Slow, shuddering, his body pressing deeper, anchoring us together.
He collapses into me with a quiet exhale, but this time, after a moment, he rolls off to the side.
His hand finds mine, and we just lie there, tangled in sweat and breath and everything that’s changed between us.
This time, when sleep finds me, it’s soft.
And I don’t dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I WAKE UP alone.
The sheets beside me are cold, the place where Ryder slept empty and undisturbed.
Rain taps the roof in a steady, relentless rhythm—white noise against the quiet.
Outside, water streaks down the windowpane in crooked rivulets. The light is dim and gray, like the world isn’t going to fully wake up today.
My body aches.
Not just one kind of ache. My ribs flare when I breathe too deep. There’s a raw sting on my palms and a dull throb in my shoulder.
Other parts of me hurt in more pleasant ways. A deep, blooming soreness between my thighs. A swollen tenderness to my lips.
The memories come in a warm flood, making me smile. His breath in my hair, the flex of muscle under my touch, the roll ofhis hips.
The way he moved inside me. The way he came apart.
I’m still smiling as I sit up, stretch, run my fingers through my hair.
My clothing is downstairs. My towel’s probably still on the kitchen floor. I pad across the room naked, my body still humming with the ghost of his touch, and pull a green camo shirt from Ryder’s dresser. It’s soft and oversized, falling to my knees. Smells like him.
In the mirror, I catch myself.
Hair a mess. Skin flushed. Eyes still dark with sleep and sex. There’s a bruise curling around my wrist. An angry scratch slants across my cheek.
But I don’t look broken. Anything but. I look claimed.
I head downstairs barefoot, Ryder’s shirt feeling warm and intimate around me.
He’s standing at the sink in a plain white t-shirt and low-slung grey joggers, barefoot, washing dishes. The fabric clings to his back and shoulders, the ink along his arms stark against the white. His long hair is damp from the shower, pulled back into a rough knot at the base of his neck.
It’s obscene how good he looks. Brutish and domestic. Power and polish.
He doesn’t turn when I enter the kitchen.
The water runs steady. A glass clinks softly. I pad closer and wrap my arms around his waist, press my cheek to his back, just between his shoulder blades, and breathe in his smell with my eyes closed. “There you are,” I murmur.
But he doesn’t melt back against me like I expect. He stiffens, holding wet hands over the sink like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Then he shifts slightly—just enough to ease out of my arms—and I let go.
