Page 40 of The Rook’s Obsession

The idea sends a spike of paranoia through my whiskey haze. I have to physically stop myself from reaching back to touch the bandage on my shoulder blade. The tracker is gone. Nick cut it out. I flushed it. It’s fucking gone.

I wish I could be so sure about the feeling of being watched, because I have to wonder whether that will ever go away.

The room is standard, though this time there’s only one bed. Neither of us comments on that. A bathroom, a window with blackout curtains. Nick does his sweep of the closet, bathroom, and under the bed while I sit on the edge of the mattress and take another drink, because what the hell. Might as well get what he paid for.

Once he’s finished, he turns to face me, leaning against the dresser with his arms folded. Fatigue radiates from him. Not just the physical kind, either, though the dark circles under his eyes and the careful way he favors his injured leg tell that story clearly enough. There’s something deeper at play. The kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying someone else’s pain on top of your own.

I never asked him to carry it for me. I’m not even sure I want him to.

“So.” His concerned gaze flickers over me. “What do you want to do now?”

It’s a rather open-ended question that could mean a hundred things. What’s the plan? Where do we go next? How do we handle Vincenzo?

But that’s not what I hear. What I hear is a man asking me what I need, and for once, he’s not trying to steer me in one direction or another.

“I need to get my mind off this,” I tell him.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I set the bottle on the nightstand with a heavy clunk and stand up. The room tilts slightly, then rights itself. Whiskey warmth pools in my stomach and begins to spread lower.

I cross the space between us and stop when I’m close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. He’s still leaning against the dresser, arms folded, but his posture shifts. Tenses. I see his throat work as he swallows.

“Ivy…”

“Shh.” I reach for his belt buckle. “Don’t talk. Don’t ask if I’m sure. Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

His hand covers mine, stopping me. I look up, ready to go off on him, but his eyes are dark and serious, searching my face for something.

Whatever he finds there must be enough, because his hand falls away.

I undo the buckle. The leather hisses through the loops. His jeans hang loose on his hips, and I push them down, along with his boxers. I don’t give him time to think or hesitate. I sink to my knees and take him into my mouth.

He sucks in a sharp breath, his hand finding the edge of the dresser behind him.

I use my tongue, my lips, the slight scrape of teeth until he’s fully erect, and his hips are making small, involuntary thrusts into my mouth. I can taste him, feel the pulse beneath veined, sensitive skin. It’s grounding… empowering. This is where I control the pace, the pressure, the outcome.

When I pull back, he’s breathing hard, pupils blown wide. I stand up and strip off my clothes without wasting any time, watching his gaze rake over my body. Letting him see all of me—the bruises, old scars—noticing how his expression doesn’t change, doesn’t reflect pity.

I push him back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, then climb onto his lap. I reach between us and guide him inside me, taking him in one slow movement, the sensation so good it draws a groan from both of us.

He’s so big… thick, filling me completely. I pause for a moment to allow myself to adjust, to feel the stretch and burn. Then I start to move.

I set the pace. Fast, then slow, grinding down when I want to feel him deep, rising up just enough, letting the tip remain inside before slamming back down. I’m using him. Using his body to chase away the thoughts that won’t stop spiraling. The tracker. Vincenzo. The twelve years of lies. I focus on chasing the sensation, the building heat, the way his fingers dig into my sensitive flesh, how his hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rough.

I don’t. I can’t.

I keep my eyes closed and ride him harder, going after the release I need. The bed creaks, the sound matching the rhythm of our bodies moving in sync. I’m getting close, feeling the growing tension coiling tight in my belly, and I angle my hips to grind my clit against him with every downward stroke.

“Fuck, Ivy…” His voice breaks as my pussy starts milking him, drawing my pleasure out even more.

I come with a strangled cry, orgasm sharp, sudden, and exactly what I needed. For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the aftermath of pleasure, the empty silence in my head.

Then he’s moving, flipping me onto my stomach before I can catch my breath. My face presses into the pillow, my knees hit the mattress, and he’s behind me, his cock pushing back inside with one hard thrust that forces the air from my lungs.

This isn’t gentle.

He pulls my hips up, angles me where he wants me, and fucks me rough and relentless, with a force that makes the headboard slam against the wall. Each stroke hits deep, sparking aftershocks from my first orgasm, building toward something more intense.