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The climax tears through my body like a freight train.
Thick, hot ropes of cum erupt from my cock, painting her insides. The orgasm strikes with such violent, incredible intensity that my stomach muscles cramp into agonizing knots. I thrust up, burying myself as deep as physically possible, emptying every single drop into her tight, contracting heat. I ride the wave, my spine bowing off the mattress, a harsh, broken shout tearing from my lungs.
Then I fall back against the quilt, gasping for oxygen, completely wrecked.
Sloane collapses forward over my chest. Her hand falls away, and the knife clatters harmlessly to the linoleum floor, the sound sharp in the ringing silence of the room.
She buries her face in the crook of my neck, right over the tiny cut, her soft lips pressing against the smear of my warm blood.
My arms wrap around her shivering frame, locking her tight against my chest, and I don’t ever plan on letting her go.
14
SLOANE
The heat inside the trailer presses down heavy and thick, smelling of damp skin, sharp copper, and sex.
I lie flat on the mattress with my cheek resting against the center of Cole’s chest. The violent, frantic thud of his heartbeat slows to a steady, rhythmic drum under my ear. His fingers trace lazy, aimless patterns across my bare shoulder, grazing the line of my spine. The quilts bunch around our waists, trapping the warmth between our bodies.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, the suffocating tension in my muscles vanishes. I don’t scan the dark corners of the room. I don’t map the distance to the deadbolt. The fortress I built out of grief and paranoia simply dissolves into the humid air, leaving me completely, terrifyingly unguarded.
I close my eyes, letting the sheer exhaustion drag me under.
Then Cole ruins it.
His fingers stop moving against my spine. The muscles in his chest shift as he takes a long, deliberate breath.
“What happened to you, Archer?”
My eyes snap open. The familiar, icy spike of dread shoots straight into my heart. I stare at the dark tattoos decorating his pectorals.
“Tell me what made you build the walls.” His voice stays low, rough. “What put that weight on your shoulders?”
I debate sliding off the mattress. I could grab my clothes, walk out into the chill, and rebuild the barricades by morning. But the phantom heat of his mouth still burns against my collarbone. He handed me his belt on the beach. He let me hold a blade to his jugular. He surrendered every physical advantage, giving me the space to exist without fear. I owe him the truth.
I push myself up, resting my back against the wooden headboard. Then I pull the quilt over my breasts, securing the fabric under my arms. Cole doesn’t move. He stays flat on his back, his dark eyes tracking my face, waiting.
“I had a daughter.”
The words scrape out, tasting like rust.
Cole doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t offer a look of pity. He just watches me.
“Her name was June. She was the only good thing I ever managed to create.” I look down at my hands, tracing the raised ridge of the scar on my palm. “I built a life around her. Small apartments. Night shifts. We had a routine. She liked pancakes for dinner, and she asked entirely too many questions.”
My throat works hard, swallowing the jagged lump forming there.
“A truck lost control in the rain. Smashed right into the back of my car. I walked away with eleven stitches and a dead child.” I drop my hands into my lap. “The darkness isn’t a mystery, Cole. It’s just grief turning into rot. Surviving when she didn’t feels like a punishment I have to endure every single day.”
Cole shifts his weight, turning onto his side. He props his head on his hand, the corded muscle in his bicep flexing.
“What about her father?”
A violent, acidic surge of hatred burns the back of my throat. My jaw locks.
“He wasn’t really her father.” I force the words through my teeth, clinical, refusing to let the emotion break my voice. “He was my stepfather. Raymond.”
The shift happens in a fraction of a second.
