Page 95 of Vital Signs
Hunter's hand found mine, fingers interlacing. "Me too. But we have right now. Let's take it."
By the time I pulled back, his body was pliant and open, all resistance melted away. I reached for the lube again, coating my fingers. I took my time preparing him, working first one finger, then two inside him.
Hunter's body opened for me gradually, muscles relaxing as I worked him. Small gasps and sighs and half-swallowed moans slipped out of him. Each one a gift. Each one proof that I was the one in control now. Not Wright. Not Roche. Me.
"Voilà mon bon garçon." I praised, scissoring my fingers gently.
When he finally came apart beneath me, trembling and gasping my name, it validated everything. The connection between us was more than physical. It was Hunter choosing to trust the man who'd violated his DNR. It was me proving I deserved that trust. It was both of us reclaiming intimacy after trauma had tried to destroy our capacity for it.
In the quiet aftermath, reality intruded. The clock ticking. Wright's threats. Our impossible timeline.
Hunter stroked my hair, grounding me. "Tomorrow night," he said. "We take him. Before he can make those calls."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong." But his grip tightened, betraying his own fear. "We're fighting for our future. People fight harder when they have something to lose."
For long minutes, we lay tangled together, skin to skin, breath gradually slowing. The room smelled of sweat and sex and us. Not Wright. Not Roche. Just Hunter and me.
Eventually, I rolled off him, collapsing onto my back beside him. We both stared at the ceiling, chests heaving, bodies still trembling with aftershocks.
"Jesus Christ," Hunter ran a shaking hand over his face. "That was... fuck... your voice..."
I turned my head to look at him, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Just my voice, huh?"
"Your fucking French," he snapped, like it was a personal betrayal. "My brain came. Twice."
I couldn't help the laugh. "You have a language kink, mon loup. Glossophilia. Very common."
"I don't have a..." He stopped, frowning. "Is that an actual thing?"
"Very much so." I propped myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. His face was still flushed, hair wild, eyes slightly dazed. He looked thoroughly ravished. "And I’m just getting started."
"Fuck off," he grumbled, but there was no heat behind it. His eyes still held that rare vulnerability, like something fundamental had changed inside him.
We lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, the intensity of what we'd shared hanging between us.
"Want to talk about what triggered that?" he asked finally, voice gentle but not pushing. "With Wright, I mean."
I stared up at the ceiling, silent for a long moment. Part of me wanted to keep things light, to preserve the intimacy we'd just shared. But Hunter deserved more than that. This trust thing had to go both ways.
"Wright reminded me of Roche," I said finally. "The way they talked about Tyler like he was property."
Hunter's arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer. "How old were you?"
My fingers found the dragon scales on Hunter's chest, tracing the pattern absently, needing something to focus on. "Twenty-four."
"And Roche had been drugging you for how long?"
"Over a year."
His jaw clenched. "Jesus Christ. That's not assault, that's... that's torture."
"The court didn't see it that way. I was a consenting adult who’d signed my life away in a contract. The drugs were 'recreational.' Roche explained it all away as consensual power exchange."
"So you killed him."
"So I killed him." The admission should have been heavier. Instead, saying it to Hunter, it was relief. "Xander helped meescape afterward. The Laskins hid me. But I'm the one who pushed the needle in."
