Page 25 of Beautiful Savage
My cock is painfully hard, straining against my jeans. I want to shove her to her knees, make her finish what she started. I want to tear her clothes off, fuck her until she screams my name and forgets her own. But I don't. I hold her, rock her gently, like she's something precious I have to protect.
She lifts her head, blinking up at me. Her eyes are glassy, pupils so blown there's hardly any color left.
"I—" she starts, then stops.
I let her stay pressed against my chest for a few more seconds. Then, slowly, I step back. Just enough to put three feet between us, though everything in me wants to close the distance. My right hand is damp through her jeans. Evidence of what I've done, what she let me do. I can smell her on my skin.
I don't look at her face. Can't. If I see her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips from where she bit them to stay quiet, I'll lose the last thread of control.
"Finish."
One word. Operational, not emotional, though my voice comes out rougher than usual.
She pushes off the wall on unsteady legs. No words. I hear her breathing, still ragged. She walks back to the stool, and I can see the dark patch on her jeans where she came so hard she soaked through.
I sit. She steps between my knees again. Same geometry as before, except we're both different now. The air between us is thick with sex and unspoken need.
Her hands shake as she picks up a fresh swab. The tremor makes the cleaning less precise. She has resolve to finish, not steadiness. I watch her struggle to focus, watch her thighs press together like she's still aching.
She completes the wound care. Applies a butterfly closure that sits slightly crooked from her shaking hands. Her fingers linger on my skin a moment too long before pulling away.
Steps back. Closes the kit. Sets it on the counter. Won't meet my eyes, but I see the flush spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt collar.
I stand. Pull my shirt back on over the bruised ribs, though the fabric does nothing to hide my still-hard cock. Cross to the back wall.
The bedroll unfolds easily, though my hands want to shake. I remove my boots. Lie down. But not facing the wall like every other night. Tonight I lie facing the room, back to the wall, eyes toward her bed eight feet away. My cock still throbs, demanding attention I won't give it.
She stands in the kitchen. The first-aid kit closed. Two soiled swabs in the trash. Still in her jeans and t-shirt, hair coming loose from the knot. The sounds of La Sirena drift up through the floor. Laughter, music, the normal world continuing while ours has shifted into something else entirely.
She crosses to the bathroom. I hear fabric shifting. She's changing. She emerges in my black shirt, bare legs visible in the lamplight. The shirt falls to her knees, and my cock jumps at the sight.
She stops briefly at the alcove threshold, one hand braced on the wall like she needs the support. Her thighs are pressed together, and I know she's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and aching.
She climbs into bed. Turns toward the wall, away from me. But not before I see her hand drift down, hovering over where I touched her, like she's remembering.
The lamp stays on.
She hasn't moved in ten minutes, but her breathing gives her away. Too shallow, too careful, too controlled. She's awake. Knowing I'm watching. Feeling me watching. The sheet rustles as she shifts, and I catch the smallest sound. Not quite a whimper, but close. Her hand moves under the covers, then stops. I hear her breath catch.
She's still wet. Still aching. Still here.
My cock hasn't softened. Won't. Not with her scent still on my hand, not with the memory of her shattering against my palm. The need to cross those eight feet burns through me like acid. Eight feet. I could be there in two strides. Could slide my hand between her bare thighs, feel her wetness without the barrier of denim. Could make her come again, harder this time, until she screams my name.
She shifts again. Her thighs press together under the covers. I can tell by how the fabric moves. Another almost-sound escapes her, so quiet I barely catch it. But I do. I catch everything. Every breath, every movement, every second she doesn't sleep.
Neither of us is going to sleep tonight.
11 - Daphne
“Get dressed. Come.”
Gunner fills the doorway, his tone making my pulse skip. His bedroll is already folded against the wall. My body hasn't stopped humming since the wall last night, since his hand between my legs, since I came apart against his palm fully clothed.
He disappeared into the night hours ago. I heard footsteps fade down the service stairs sometime after midnight, though I couldn't track exactly when. Now he's back, and his words carry the weight of something that matters.
"What time is it?" I grumble.
"Get dressed," he repeats.
