Page 86 of Crave

“I don’t know what this is,” he said, voice roughened at the edges, like truth scraping free. He swallowed. “Just that it feels so fucking good I can’t stop. Even though it really… fucking…hurts.”

My chest cracked wide open. It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. As if he couldn’t remember the last time anything had felt this good and didn’t trust it now that it did. So I reached up, slid my hand to the back of his neck, scratching my fingers through the short bristle of his hair, and pulled him closer so our noses met.

“Same,” I whispered. “I want you to hurt me.”

He didn’t move. He stayed there, inside me, head bowed, arms trembling, as if savouring the moment. Our breaths tangled. His rough and uneven, mine caught somewhere between wanting and disbelief. And when he finally started to move, it was slow. Careful. As if testing what he could take. What I could. And even though I knew it was because he hurt, I couldn’t stop myself from believing it was something else entirely. That for once, it wasn’t just sex.

It was him letting himself feel.

But that gentleness didn’t last. Couldn’t. Not with the hunger living between us. Every thrust was deeper, harder, his body shaking with the effort, with pain he refused to show. And I couldn’t stop watching him. The way his jaw locked. How his eyes, dark and fevered, never left mine. He wasn’t just looking at me. He was looking through me. Stripped bare, every wall between us dissolving in sweat and sound.

He kissed me again, rough and desperate, swallowing the groan breaking from my chest. I clung to him, to the heat and weight of him, the whole world narrowing to this one impossible point where want and ruin met.

“Richie,” I breathed, the name breaking on my tongue.

He shuddered, unravelling, and his hand caught the back of my neck, holding me still, our mouths inches apart, breaths spilling between us.

“Say it again,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“Richie.” It came out like surrender.

He drove forward, deeper, harder, the rhythm breaking apart. Pain and need blurred until they were indistinguishable. Pulse, pressure, heat. Then he dropped his forehead to mine, his body locking up, breath tearing out of him in a low, fractured sound filling the space between us.

I came apart with him, caught between his heartbeat and mine, between everything I shouldn’t want and everything I couldn’t stop craving. Then he spilled inside me with a feral groan, and I made more of a mess between us, neither of us caring enough to stop it.

For a long time after, there was only the sound of our breathing. The room heavy with heat and something close to quiet. He stayed there, body trembling, forehead still pressed to mine, dick wilting inside me. And, with a shaky half-laugh against my lips, he whispered,

“You’re still Tricky.”

Chapter eighteen

Razor

I must’ve crashed after.

Body gave out.

Pain’ll do that. Pain and exhaustion and being a complete fucking idiot.

If I’d stayed awake, I’d have had to face it. The mess I’d made. Getting stabbed. Running instead of fighting. Leaving Darren. The warehouse. Cormac’s name rotting on the pavement. He’d rather I’d bled out there than legged it like a scared little cunt. But I did. I ran.

And where did I run?

Here.

To him.

Don’t ask me why. Wasn’t thought-out. Weren’t planned, either. My head weren’t right. And it’s not like I came here for another round, though Christ knows that would’ve been easier to explain. No, it was something else. Unconscious. Instinct. Some part of me believing this place was safe.

Then I’d woken. Groggy, sore, bandaged up in clean sheets that weren’t mine. And there he was. Tricky. Sitting by the bed as if he’d been watching all night.

That fucked me up worse than the knife.

He didn’t know me. All he knew was that I was trouble. A thug. Someone who deserved every punch that found me. He should’ve called the filth, or an ambulance, or both. Instead, he’d patched me up. Slept beside me. Got his posh mate to play doctor. Which, yeah, was another situation I’d have to sort. Him knowing my face wasn’t ideal.

Then there was last night. What we did.

Not the usual quick and dirty shit. Not what I’m built for. That was different. Slow.