Page 118 of The Clinch
“Harder,” I manage.
He growls low in his throat and obliges. His hips snap forward, pounding into me, and I’m choosing him. I know that now. One of his hands leaves my breast to reach around and rub my clit, and that’s all it takes to tip me over the edge.
“Leo—”
I come apart with his name on my lips, my whole body clenching and shuddering.
“Flash,” he breathes, following me moments later. A final deep thrust, then he stills, pressing his mouth to my shoulder blade as he comes.
We stay like that for a long moment, water running over us, catching our breath. Then he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and reaches for the soap.
He washes me slowly and thoroughly.
Soap, warm water, his touch deliberate on my skin. He takes his time, making me stand still long enough to feel it.
“Turn,” he says softly.
I do. He rubs my shoulders, my breasts, my abdomen with the same gentle, unhurried touch he uses everywhere else, patient and careful. The steam fogs the glass, shrinking the world to heat, breath, and the quiet certainty of his touch.
When he’s done, he shuts off the water and reaches for a towel from the stack, wrapping it around my shoulders first before taking one for himself.
He dries me the same way—methodical, focused, as if he’s putting me back together. As if he knows I came apart, and he’s taking responsibility for every piece.
“Come on,” he says.
Then he lifts me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even as my arms circle his neck.
“Carrying you to bed.”
I laugh, but I don’t fight it. I let him take me through the cool dimness of his bedroom, and lay me down on the sheets. He climbs in behind me, pulls the covers over us both, and wraps his arms around me.
His chest is warm against my back. His breaths are even in my hair. His arm settles at my waist, heavy and anchoring.
For a little while, I stop thinking about leaving.
For a little while, that doesn’t even scare me.
Then my phone lights up on the nightstand.
I don’t reach for it right away. Leo’s arm is at my waist, the room is cool and I’m not ready to let the outside world back in yet.
But the screen stays lit.
I shift carefully and grab it.
A Google alert. Travis Drake’s name, set up four years ago and mostly silent.
Travis Drake — Brooklyn MMA circuit — underground card — this weekend.
I read it twice. The address is twelve minutes from this apartment.
Leo’s breathing stays even behind me. His arm doesn’t move.
I lock the screen and put the phone face down on the nightstand.
I stay on edge for a long time after that.
