She flipped us—surprising strength in that small frame—straddling me, her wetness sliding along my length. "My turn," she said, eyes dark with power.
I gripped her hips, trying to guide gentle, but she ground down hard, taking what she wanted. "Hazel?—"
"Quiet." She leaned down, biting my lower lip. "Let me."
She reached between us, wrapping her hand around my cock—tight, sure strokes that had me thrusting up involuntary. "This," she said, positioning me at her entrance. God, that stroking. "Inside. Now."
I tried one last time. "Slow?—"
"No." She sank down, taking me inch by inch, her heat enveloping me until I was buried deep. We both groaned. She paused, adjusting, then started moving—riding me hard, hips rolling, breasts bouncing with each thrust.
Beautiful. Graphic. Her controlling the pace, the depth, the everything. I surrendered, hands on her ass, letting her use me. She stopped suddenly, and I thought something was wrong. But she surprised me again by flashing a devilish smile, dismounting me, and slithering down so we were still making eye contact, and her hand was wrapped around my cock. With a groan of pleasure she licked me up and down, sending me down the rabbit hole of fire. When she felt like I was close, she took the head in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it slow, milking every ounce of restraint out of me.
Fuck.
Then she was on top of me again, filling herself with my manhood, eyes lit, claiming me.
"Faster," she demanded, nails digging into my chest. I bucked up to meet her, the slap of skin loud in the room.
She came first—hard, clenching around me, cry muffled against my shoulder. I followed seconds later, spilling inside her with a growl.
She collapsed on my chest, satisfied, empowered. "You can get back to work now," she said playfully.
We laughed, the role reversal perfect. I was happy to take orders from her.
I lay there for another moment, her body still draped half over mine, both of us catching our breath. Her hair was a wild mess, red curls spread across my chest like fire, and her skin was flushed pink from exertion and satisfaction and something deeper—pride, maybe, or relief. Like she'd just proven something to herself that she'd needed to prove.
She looked happy.
Actually, genuinely happy in a way I hadn't seen since before Sam Jarrow walked through her door. Not the careful, controlled version of happy she wore like armor. Real happiness. Unguarded. The kind that made her eyes bright and her mouth soft and my chest feel too small to contain what I felt for her.
"You good?" I asked, my hand tracing lazy patterns on her back—circles and figure eights and her name written in a language only my fingertips spoke.
"So good." She stretched like a cat, muscles flexing and releasing, then propped herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her eyes were clearer than they'd been in hours, the haunted look finally chased away by something stronger. "You?"
"Better than good." I tucked a curl behind her ear, watching it spring free immediately. Stubborn. Like her. "You're incredible, you know that?"
She grinned, wicked and pleased with herself in a way that made me want to flip her over and start all over again. "I have my moments."
"More than moments." I caught her chin, holding her gaze so she'd hear me. Really hear me. "You're the strongest person I've ever met, Hazel. And I've met a lot of people who thought they were strong."
Her eyes went bright for a second, something raw and vulnerable flickering across her face before she blinked it away. But I'd seen it. The part of her that still couldn't quite believe someone might see her as anything other than a victim or a survivor or a woman held together by lists and backup plans.
She kissed me once, soft and sweet and surprisingly shy after what we'd just done, then rolled off the bed and started hunting for her clothes. I watched her move—unselfconscious now, comfortable in her skin in a way she hadn't been even an hour ago—and felt something settle in my chest. Something that felt dangerously like contentment.
"What are you doing?" I asked, not ready for her to leave yet. Not ready to share her with the world downstairs.
"Getting dressed." She pulled my hoodie back on, drowning in it, and I had to resist the urge to drag her back to bed. "You have brothers downstairs probably tearing apart my porch or planning military operations in my kitchen."
"Our kitchen," I corrected automatically.
She paused, looking at me with those green eyes that saw too much and somehow still chose to look, anyway. The word hung between us—our—heavier than three letters had any right to be.
"Our kitchen," she agreed softly, testing the shape of it. Then her grin returned, brighter this time, more real. "Now go. Shoo. Get back to work, soldier."
I laughed, the sound surprising me with how easy it came. "Yes, ma'am."
"That's what I like to hear." She threw my shirt at my face with perfect aim. "Put that on before you give Maude a heart attack."
