He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, using the wall for leverage. The first thrust punches the air from my lungs, sharp pleasure-pain that has me gasping against his shoulder. Too much, too fast, but also exactly what I need.
"Okay?" His voice sounds wrecked, the question barely coherent.
I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Move."
Whatever restraint he's been maintaining shatters completely, and there's nothing careful about the way he takes me. The rhythm turns hard and fast, driven by the primal thing that matches the wildness clawing through me. The wall provides a steady counterpoint to the chaos consuming us.
I can't think. I can't process anything beyond the feel of him, the stretch and burn and mounting pressure building at the base of my spine. His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping but not biting, and the restraint in that gesture somehow makes it more intense.
My nails leave crescents in his skin, drawing blood to match the gore already staining us both. He groans, low and rough, and the vibration travels through me like lightning. I'm close, so close the edges of the world blur into nothing but sensation and need.
His teeth scrape my throat, a rough growl vibrating against my pulse. "That's it."
The permission breaks what's left of my control. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, stealing breath and sense and leaving nothing but white-hot sensation in its wake. I hear myself cry out, distant and disconnected, as he drives deeper, chasing his own release.
He follows moments later, my name torn from his throat like a prayer or a curse. His forehead presses to mine, breathing ragged, body shuddering with the force of it.
The silence afterward feels deafening.
The cool air raises goosebumps on overheated skin. My muscles ache, pushed past their limits. Blood and other fluids cool, sticky reminders of what we've done. The wall still digs into my shoulders where he has me pinned.
Kian pulls back, carefully, and I try not to wince at the loss. My legs feel shaky when my feet touch the floor again, and his hand shoots out to steady me. The gesture feels too careful, too concerned, and the vulnerability in it makes my chest ache.
Neither of us speaks. What would I even say?Thanks for the shag after watching you commit murder?Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up my throat, but I force it down.
Kian steps back, running a hand through his hair and leaving red streaks in the dark strands. He looks wrecked, marked with evidence of violence and passion in equal measure, and Christ, I must look the same.
"I should—" He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. "Clean up."
"Right." I start to grab my discarded clothes, hyper-aware of his eyes tracking the movement. "Me too."
The awkwardness settles like fog, thick and suffocating. We move around each other with exaggerated care, two people pretending this is normal, that we haven't just crossed about seventeen different lines simultaneously.
I remember grabbing Kian's phone during the fight, my fingers shaking as I found Rafe's contact and sent a single word:
Help.
The response came back almost immediately:
On my way.
I'm pulling on my jacket when I hear an engine rumble up the track. Kian's head snaps toward the window, muscles bunching beneath his skin, but then he relaxes marginally. "Rafe."
This situation needed an audience, apparently.
Kian grabs clothes from somewhere—jeans, a shirt—pulling them on as heavy footsteps approach the door. He doesn't bother with the shirt buttons before opening it, and Rafe fills the doorway, all lean muscle and sharp eyes taking in the scene with too much knowing.
His gaze sweeps the cottage—the scattered clothes I haven't finished gathering, the marks blooming purple on my throat, the blood still streaking Kian's skin where he hasn't managed to wash. One dark eyebrow rises, but he doesn't comment. He jerks his chin toward the clearing outside.
"Came to help with the mess." His voice carries undertones of amusement. "Looks like you've been busy."
My face burns. Kian's jaw works, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "Body's out by the treeline. Elite enforcer by the scent. They're escalating."
"Aye." Rafe's expression turns grim. "That's not the worst of it."
Kian goes still in the way predators do before they strike. "What."
"Got word from our contact in Oban." Rafe's eyes flick to me, assessing, before returning to Kian. "The Russians moved up the handoff. Three hours earlier."
