His mouth finds mine before I can bite back a reply. Slow, commanding, filthy. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to.
He presses against me, pins me to the wall with his body, one hand slipping between us to slide up under the hem of the hoodie I still haven’t taken off. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing, never rushing, steady with cruel intent.
I whimper when he finds me soaked. Already aching for him. He pulls back just enough to murmur against my mouth, “Yeah, you are. Knew you’d come to me desperate.”
He makes quick work of my shorts, drags them down just enough to give him access. I hear the sound of his zipper, then feel the thick, hot press of him against me as he shoves his jeans low on his hips. Then he lifts me, just like that, strong hands gripping beneath my thighs as he pins me higher against the wall.
My breath catches. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, clinging to him, anchoring us both.
His hand braces beside my head as he rocks forward, just the tip, slow, teasing, barely there. Torture in the best way. I’m suspended, surrounded, caged by him.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “You’re gonna feel every inch, hellcat. But not until you beg again.”
He pulls out and pushes in again with shallow, torturous strokes that drive me mad. My nails dig into his back, breath catching, every nerve raw with need.
“Please,” I gasp.
“Shh,” he says, voice a low growl. “You gotta be quiet, hellcat. You want them all to know I’ve got you stuffed full in the hallway?”
I bite down on his shoulder, hard, trying to stifle the moan building in my throat as he thrusts deeper, grinding slow circles inside me until I’m trembling.
His breath hitches against my neck, jaw clenched. “So fucking tight,” he rasps, voice ragged. “Always wound up for me.”
His pace stays slow, too slow. Every roll of his hips hits deep, angled perfectly until sparks curl through my belly and I shatter with a cry I barely manage to bite down. My body clenches around him, pulsing, and he groans low in his throat, burying his face in my hair to keep from losing it right there.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He keeps moving, keeps grinding just right until the pressure rebuilds, sharper, meaner, impossibly good.
“Come for me again,” he growls. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I do, helpless, shaking, breaking around him while he holds me up with ease.
His mouth drags along my ear, breath hot. “You feel that? That’s me losing every bit of control I’ve got when it comes to you. And I fucking love it. I love taking care of you, hellcat.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes because it isn’t just want, it’s need. His and mine. Matched. Consuming.
When he finally comes, it’s with a groan muffled in my shoulder, arms wrapped so tight around me I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I don’t want to.
He still doesn’t tell me what the guys are planning. I still don’t care.
Chapter 43
Malachi
Idon’tneedtosee her to know Candace is at the bar. I can hear her. Laughter, loud and unfiltered. That sharp little squeal Ruby always makes when she thinks she’s onto something. Frankie’s voice cutting through the noise as sharply as a buzz saw. Sloane gasps, Darla deadpans. A whole chorus of chaos. And beneath all of it... Her. That voice. Low. Soft around the edges. Unbothered. Dangerous. It curves through the wall, smoke from a lit match, sultry and untamed. The kind of sound that crawls under a man’s skin and stays there.
I don’t move from my seat in the back room. Just lean back in the chair, arms draped across the sides, a toothpick between my teeth as I listen to her pretend she isn’t glowing. The scent of oil and aged whiskey clings to the air, but beneath it, I swear I catch a wisp of something sweeter, vanilla, maybe citrus. Hers.
Knox looks up from the table, tightening the strap on his rifle. “She sounds suspiciously… happy.”
East, in the corner cleaning his knives with the patience of an assassin, doesn’t even look up. “Unsettling, ain’t it?”
Nash gives me a long, suspicious look. “You tell her?” I don’t say anything. He pushes, grinning now. “About the plan. You tell her?”
“No,” I say. Calm. Even. “Didn’t tell her anything.” Even though part of me wants to. Wants to hear her thoughts. Wants to see that fire catch behind her eyes. But I don’t. Can’t risk her trying to fix what isn’t hers to carry.
East snorts. “Then why’s she smiling the way someone does after winning a fight nobody else knew was happening?” I let the silence hang for a second too long. That pause is its own confession. The way her legs wrapped tight around me still echoes in my bones. Her fingernails dug crescents into my back. Her mouth was on my throat, her voice in my ear, low, desperate, ruined.
That’s when James speaks again. Casual, but with that dad-tone he pulls when he already knows the answer. “You didn’t tell her,” he says. “But you definitely distracted her.”
