He wants to hear it. Every gasp. Every broken sound. He wants tohearme unravel while he destroys me.
I’m so full, my pussy so wet. Tears trickle down my face—my throat feels like the screams are razorblades.
He adjusts behind me; I think he gets to one knee and continues at a new angle.
“Fuuuuu—” I start to roar, before the orgasm hits and hot fluid comes rushing from me. It sprays on the bed, coating the mattress beneath us. Everything is drenched, slick heat spreading beneath us, and when he drives harder, more spills out—like my body’s surrender made visible.
My legs are gone, I’m unable to hold my weight up after my ruin, so he holds my hips up and continues to pound into me.
“Fuck Summer…. My dirty little slut. Look at you fucking pouring for me.”
A tiny, pathetic yelp comes out, for a second, I think I’m going to pass out. Then he roars.
“FUCK!” he screams, louder than any bellow I’ve heard come from him, as he explodes, pulsing inside of me, filling me with his hot seed.
He stays there for a moment, chest rising against my back, catching his breath. Then he pulls out slowly and presses a towel between my cheeks. He tucks it beneath me with quiet care before moving to undo the cuffs.
Through the haze, I still notice the shift in his expression—the flicker of concern when he sees the raw marks circling my wrists where the metal bit into my skin.
“I’m sorry,” he says, over and over, as he raises them to his mouth, kissing the red areas over and over.
I roll onto my back—unable to speak a word—and pass out into a long, and restless sleep.
Chapter 18
Ashes At The Door
Summer
The phone rips through the silence like a knife. Shrill. Violent. Too loud for the hour, too piercing for the fragile threads holding the night together. I freeze under the covers, heart jerking hard enough to ache.
I reach over to put my arm over Jacob, but he already sits on the edge of the bed, boots propped, like he’s been waiting for this exact sound.
He answers on the second ring.
His voice drops, a graveled growl meant only for whoever’s on the other end. Too low for me to catch words, but the silence between them tells me more than words could.
His shoulders tighten. His jaw works once, twice, hard enough I hear the faint grind of teeth.
“No, I’ll handle it,” he says, and hangs up.
When he turns, his eyes skim the bed, locking on me even in the dark. That stare—it stills the blood in my veins. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll speak. That he’ll explain where he’s going. But he doesn’t.
“I love you,” he whispers, before he stands, fluid, efficient, no wasted motion. He shrugs into his coat, holsters his gun with the ease of muscle memory, and stalks toward the door.
The slam echoes through the walls, rattling them like a warning.
I sit up, breath caught tight in my throat. The silence he leaves behind feels louder than the call that pulled him away. I’m still aching—muscles sore, wrists throbbing where the metal bit into my skin. The marks sting now, and I know by morning they’ll bloom into bruises.
He said sorry. For the first time, he actually apologized for hurting me. For marking me. The sound of that word still echoes, like he wasn’t sure how it was supposed to feel on his tongue.
Maybe it’s just kids causing trouble somewhere in town, I tell myself. Maybe that’s all it is. But he’s the sheriff—he has deputies for that. If he left without a word, it means something bigger. Something bad.
I wish I’d stopped him. Asked him where he was going, when he’d be back. Instead, I just watched him go, too stunned, too raw to speak.
I could call him. I could. But if it’s serious—if it’s something that needs the sheriff himself—he won’t want me to disturb him. So, I stay where I am— staring at ceiling—the quiet pressing down on me. My body aches, my mind won’t stop replaying the way he looked at me before he left, and I know I won’t drift back to sleep.
I climb out of bed, the cool air biting against my skin as I move toward the en-suite. The light flickers once before steadying, and I stand there for a moment, staring at my reflection—hair tangled, eyes hollow. I reach for a towel, for something to do with my hands, anything to make the silence less suffocating.
