Page 145 of Broken Pieces
His jaw locks, eyes squeezed shut for a second as he sucks in a sharp, broken breath. A sound rips from his throat, a half-moan, half-snarl and then I watch him shudder. Full-body, violent. His hands grip my thighs, holding me there.
“Fucking hell,” he chokes out, voice catching as his body bucks once, twice, until he stills for a second.
He spills inside me—hot, thick, pulse after pulse—his cock twitching as he grinds again and again, lost in the release. His head drops to my shoulder, breaths ragged against my skin, chest heaving with every exhale as he fucks me slowly, riding out his orgasm.
When he stops, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, buried so deep it is like he’s part of me now. His chest presses against mine, slick with sweat. Every breath is ragged, every muscle in his body still trembling.
His hand lifts, fingers threading through my hair.
He brushes it back from my face with a touch so careful it makes my chest ache. His thumb grazes over the scar above my eyebrow. That tiny mark I’ve tried to forget, but the one he sees.
Then he leans in and kisses it.
His mouth lingers on the scar, his lips brushing over that mark as if it’s something sacred.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His gaze is fierce, dark, but there’s something raw hiding underneath.
His thumb drags slowly across my cheek, over that damn scar, then down, following the shape of my face.
That signature Zane edge is still there… cocky, dangerous, untouchable, but there’s a softness to him now.
“I promise you,” he says, voice low, breath still uneven from everything we just did. “This time, I’m not fucking running.”
He leans in and kisses me.
I believe him.
Even if I shouldn’t.
Even if it’s reckless, wild and stupid. Because right now, Zane doesn’t feel like the boy I should run from.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Zane
Sweatclingstoeveryinch of me as the heat pours through the corrugated roof, turning the whole place into a goddamn furnace.
My shirt’s somewhere behind me, tossed the second it started sticking. Grease stains my jeans. I don’t stop. Not when the noise in my head only quiets when my hands are busy.
The compressor kicks in. The radio crackles, cuts out, comes back in with some shitty rock song from decades ago. I let it play. Anything’s better than silence.
I wipe my hands on a rag and crouch by the engine bay, bolts half-loose. My knuckles ache. But it’s honest work. The kind that gives you something back when everything else in your life doesn’t.
Then I hear her.
That voice.
“Brought you lunch.”
I lift my head and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist.
Skylar is standing close now, too close, holding a plate with both hands. Her hair’s twisted up, strands stuck to the side of her neck. That neck. Soft skin, flushed from the heat. She looks at me with those wide beautiful fucking eyes.
Behind me, Mason lets out a low whistle.
“Didn’t know you brought food,” he says, mouth curled into that smug grin he wears when he thinks he’s got a shot. His gaze drops, lingering where it shouldn’t. On her chest. Down her legs.
My fists tighten. It’d be too fucking easy to bury my knuckles in his face and call it a day.
