He tastes like smoke and beer and every bad night he’s endured without me, but underneath is all heat and fire, and I drink it down like I’ve been starving.
The door slams shut behind me, caught by my heel as I kick it closed. My hood falls back, my hair spilling down, and his eyes lock on me like I’m the only thing left in the world.
My hands find his chest, hard beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. His hands slide up into my hair, fists curling just enough to anchor me, to say he’s here and he’s not letting go. I walk him backward, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He drops into it, but I don’t give him room tobreathe. I straddle his lap, the fabric of our sweatpants dragging together, doing nothing to dull the heat already burning through my skin.
“Kat,” he tries to speak, his voice ragged.
“No talking.” I press my mouth to his again, because if we start talking I’ll lose my nerve. I don’t want words. I want him.
His chest rises under me, the muscles flexing tight as I fist the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his head. My fingers brushing the heat of his stomach, the hard lines of muscle there. His skin is warm, scarred, familiar in ways I’ve memorized with my hands before. I drag my palms up over his ribs, his shoulders, his throat. His pulse hammers against my fingertips, steady and strong.
He lets me set the pace. But there’s heat in his gaze, a banked fire that flares when I shift against him, pressing closer, feeling the hard length of him already straining beneath his sweatpants. A growl rumbles out of him, vibrating against my lips as he kisses me back hard enough to bruise. One hand slides down my spine, tugging me closer.
I gasp when his tongue claims mine, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from my lungs and feeds me something else entirely. My hips rock instinctively, friction sparking, and he grips tighter, fingers biting into the curve of my ass like he’s holding back everything he wants to unleash.
“Jesus, Maya,” he rasps, his mouth sliding down to my throat, teeth grazing the skin there. The sound of my name on his lips makes me shiver. “You show up in the middle of the night and do this to me…”
“I need you, now.” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair, tugging his head back so I can claim his mouth again.
I don’t want to think. I don't want to talk about Serrano or Vale, or the blood still under my nails from burying Riot. I don’t want to think about the club, or the weight of tonight, or thescars that burn when I breathe too deep. I just want him. I want the way he makes me feel alive instead of just surviving.
His hand slips under my hoodie, skimming over bare skin. I didn’t bother with anything underneath. He hesitates, searching my eyes. I answer by lifting my arms. The fabric peels away, leaving me bare.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the word sounding more like a prayer than a curse. His eyes drink me in like I’m something holy.
The rough pads of his fingers brush my breasts, tugging at my nipples until I gasp. Heat floods between my legs, pooling low and insistent. He surges up suddenly, one arm wrapping around my back, hauling me tight against his chest. His mouth claims mine again, like he’s the one taking control but he’s just meeting me where I am. Hungry. Desperate. Alive. My hands work at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving the fabric down, desperate and unashamed. His cock springs free, hot and thick against my palm. I tug once, slow, testing and he groans into my mouth, his whole body jolting. I stroke him once, twice, slow enough to make his hips jerk beneath me. His breath hitches, his eyes dark as they pin me in place. He looks wrecked already, undone, and it makes me ache in the best way.
His eyes close, a curse slipping out through clenched teeth. His head falls back against the couch. I follow, my lips dragging along his throat, tasting salt and smoke and something uniquely him. My teeth catch his skin just above his collarbone, and his whole body shudders. I grind against him, the thin barrier of my sweats dragging over the length of him. My body screams for more, for him inside me, for the burn and stretch and everything that makes me forget the world outside these four walls.
I lift up just enough to shove my sweats down until there’s nothing left between us but sweat and heat. The world narrows to this couch, this moment, his hands gripping my hips, my nails dragging down his shoulders, our bodies sliding together inrhythm that feels inevitable. I reach between us, guiding him to me. The head of his cock slides against my slick folds, and then I sink down on him, slow but steady, taking every inch. My body stretches around him, sharp pleasure sparking into something deeper, something that makes me whimper low in my throat. His hands grip my hips, trembling with the effort not to thrust up, to let me set the pace. When he finally pushes into me, it’s slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. My breath stutters, every nerve lit. He groans low, his forehead pressed to mine, sweat slicking our skin.
“Fuck, you feel…” His words dissolve into a broken sound, his lips finding mine again, kissing me through the ache, through the fire.
He kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m the air. I kiss him back like I’ll burn alive if I don’t. I rock against him, slow at first, savoring the drag and slide. His hands guide me, steady, reverent, pulling me closer every time I try to pull back. The pace builds, slow at first, then faster, deeper, every thrust pushing the air from my lungs, every drag pulling me closer to the edge. My nails dig into his back, leaving marks. His teeth scrape my shoulder, a groan rumbling deep in his chest. When his eyes lock on mine, there’s nothing but raw want there and something that scares me more than any blade or bullet ever could.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice wrecked, not even bothering to hide the slip.
I freeze for half a beat, My heart lurches. My throat closes. But I already know it’s more than just words because it’s written all over him. I see it. I feel it. It’s in the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters. It’s in the way he mouths my name like it’s a prayer. My throat closes around the words I can’t give him. But I show him in every way I know how, tightening around him, grinding deeper, my mouth finding his again, answering with my body what my lips can’t say. His groanrumbles into me, his grip on my hips tightening as he thrusts up, meeting me stroke for stroke. The rhythm builds, faster, harder, sweat slicking our skin. My nails rake down his chest, my head tipping back as pleasure coils hot and sharp inside me.
“Look at me,” he demands, his voice harsh. A surge of heat crawls up my spine. His hand grips my chin, dragging my gaze back to his. His eyes are molten, wide open, seeing all of me. “Stay with me, Maya.”
He thrusts upwards sending jagged bolts of pleasure straight to my core. The world fractures. Pleasure rips through me, sharp and consuming. I hold his gaze as I come undone, my body clenching around him, the walls I’ve built shattering in his arms. I cry out, his name muffled against his lips.
He follows, heat flooding me as his whole body locks tight, then trembles, his groan spilling into my mouth. For a long moment, the only sound I hear is our ragged breathing, the thud of our hearts against each other. I don’t let go. I don’t move off him. I collapse forward, pressing my forehead to his shoulder, listening to the wild beat of his heart. He holds me like I’m something worth keeping, like I’m not the mess I feel inside.
His lips brush my temple, soft in a way I never expected from him. “You scare the hell out of me,” he murmurs.
A weak laugh escapes me, hoarse and real. “Good.”
I shift just enough to meet his eyes again. He’s stripped bare, every wall down, every scar showing. My hand lifts, tracing one jagged line across his chest, then another. He does the same, his palm skimming the mark on my ribs, the faded scar across my arm. We map each other in silence, cataloging the history carved into our skin, the only proof we need of what we’ve endured and survived.
The walls between us are gone. For the first time, I believe this could be real. We stay tangled together a long time, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. The paused TV across the roomthrows a muted glow over everything, fighters frozen mid-swing, a silent stutter of violence that feels a lifetime away. My breath finally evens out. Dante’s does too. I can feel it against my cheek, warm and steady, the rhythm settling me in a way I didn’t know I needed. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pry. One hand spreads low over my spine, the other combs slow through my hair like he’s relearning me inch by inch and wants to get it right.
“Water?” he murmurs against my temple.
“Yes,” I breathe, though my body doesn’t want to move, not one inch.
He kisses me once, quick and sure, then lifts me off his lap with care, guiding me down to the couch. My legs wobble and he steadies me, thumbs pressing circles into my hips before he stands. He disappears into the kitchen, completely bare, moving with a quiet confidence that makes even the simplest thing feel important.
