Page 64 of Rookie's Shot
He grabs my thighs, shoving them wide, and drives into me in one singular, devastating thrust.
We both stop breathing.
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp as he fills me completely, stretching me to my limit.
We stay there for a heartbeat, foreheads pressed together, his breath ragged and hot against my lips.
Then the rhythm starts.
It isn't a dance. It's more like a conquest.
He hammers into me with a furious, desperate intensity, his hips colliding with mine with a wet, slapping sound that fills the room.
The dresser groans under our combined weight, sliding an inch across the floor with every powerful drive. There is nothing careful about this.
It’s raw, urgent, and primal.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rumble.
I open my eyes.
The vulnerability staring back at me is staggering.
Behind the dominance and the strength, he is terrified—terrified of the world, of the men who want me, of the possibility that he isn't enough.
I grip his jaw, forcing him to stay present, to see me. "I'm here. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."
That's the breaking point. The last thread of his control snaps.
He buries himself deeper, his movements becoming frantic, his breath coming in jagged hitches.
I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, locking him in, pulling him over the edge with me.
We shatter together.
He lets out a raw, guttural roar, the sound torn from the depths of his soul as he pumps his seed deep inside me.
My nails rake down his sides, carving red lines into his skin as my own orgasm crashes over me in violent, rhythmic waves.
Silence falls, heavy and thick.
He collapses onto me, his weight crushing me into the dresser, his heart hammering against my ribs.
The room smells of sex, sweat, and that metallic, motor-oil scent that has become my only definition of safety.
As his breathing evens out, I trace the welts my nails left along his ribs.
I don't apologize. Iwanthim to carry the marks of my desperation just as I carry the bruises of his grip.
He eventually pulls me off the dresser, carries me over to the bed, and lays us both down.
He presses his lips to the knob at the top of my spine and holds them there, like he's sealing something shut.
"I'm calling Ruger in the morning." He says it into my skin. "If Creedy shows up again, it won't end with him walking to his truck."
I close my eyes and press into his warmth.
I should be afraid of what those words mean. A week ago, I would have been.
