Page 137 of What We Brave
"It's infuriating."
"Is it?"
I dry my hands on a towel. Take my time with it. Mostly because I need a second to get my shit together. Heart's hammering like I just ran a code, fingers not entirely steady, and every time I blink I'm seeing Blake's teeth on her throat.
Didn't expect that. Not the him-doing-it part.
The me-wanting-to-watch part.
I'm going to file that shit away, and deal with it later.
Because right now Laine is standing in my kitchen looking like a lit match, and Blake just handed me the fuse.
Two strides. That's all it takes to cross the kitchen.
She turns to face me. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and wild.
God, she's beautiful.
"Reid—"
I don't let her finish. My hand wraps around the back of her neck — right over where Blake's hand just was, skin still warm — and I kiss her.
It's not gentle. It's a month of taking it slow and being respectful and keeping my hands shoved in my pockets going up in smoke. Every careful distance I've maintained just — gone. Torched. And underneath all of it, this roaring relief that she's here. That she came back. That I get to touch her again.
She makes a desperate noise against my mouth.
Good.
I want her marks on me. Proof she's here. Proof this is real and not another dream where I wake up alone in a cold bed reaching for someone who isn't there.
"Bedroom," I manage against her lips.
"Now," she demands. Voice wrecked. "Right now, Reid. I can't — I need —"
She doesn't finish. Doesn't have to.
I sweep her up, arms hooking under her thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist immediately, like her body knows exactly where it belongs. Her face buries into my neck, and then her teeth graze the skin just below my jaw.
My knees actually buckle.
Fuck.
She's going to kill me. Cause of death: teeth. Tony's gonna have to write that report and I hope he spells my name right.
"You keep doing that," I grit out, "we're not making it to the bedroom."
"Then walk faster." She bites down lightly.
Jesus Christ.
I carry her through the living room and up the stairs. My quads are screaming. Don't care. I've carried guys in full kit up worse stairs than these. She's making these little sounds against my throat — breathy, needy — and I'm pretty sure I'd carry her up a mountain right now if she asked.
I take the stairs two at a time.
My bedroom door is half-open. I kick it the rest of the way and don't bother closing it behind us. Don't bother with lights either. The hallway throws enough glow to see by.
I drop her on the mattress. She bounces, hair fanning out across the pillows. Gray sheets, dark hair, pale skin.
