"Tell me if I hurt you," he begged, his voice a raw, ragged sound. "I'm so crazy for you, I'm lost."
She reached up, her hand cupping his jaw, her thumb stroking the rough stubble. "You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. That’s not who you are, and I’m not fragile. I was built just for you."
The sound he made was part dominating and part surrender, raw, ragged, affirming as he started thrusting again. As her body adjusted, his frantic pace began to even out. The raw, primal greed softened into a need for connection. He slowed, his movements becoming more deliberate, more controlled. The punishing force gave way to a deep, thorough possession. Each slow retreat was a moment of anticipation, each deep return a confirmation. He was losing himself completely, giving himself over into her hands, the trust between them so deep and visceral it was a tangible thing in the hushed air of her foyer.
His hand slid from her hip, tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. His fingers clenched, and he pulled her head back, just enough, forcing her gaze to meet his. In their depths, she saw everything. The raw, unfiltered pleasure. The fierce, possessive heat. But beneath it, she saw his vulnerability, the same fractured soul she recognized in herself. She saw the fall, the hard, terrifying plummet into emotion he was clearly fighting, and the soft, gentle landing he was finding in her.
It was too much. She couldn’t breathe. A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her temple, and he leaned in, his tongue following its salty trail, a silent acknowledgment of the surrender they were both making.
His head dipped, and his mouth found hers again, but this kiss was different. It was no longer frantic and demanding, but slow, deep, and impossibly tender. He was no longer just taking. He was sharing. He was pouring all his fear, his awe, his burgeoning love into her, and she was taking it all, her body arching to meet his, her hands stroking his sweat-slicked back, her heart beating in time with his.
He plunged into her, fast and deep and strong, a rich, seductive rhythm that pulsed as vitally as her heartbeat. His hips ground against hers with each driving, impaling thrust until she felt him go rigid and his lower body arched into her high and hard, pushing her up and over yet another crest. She came again in a blinding climax of intoxicating speed and delirious sensation.
A low growl erupted from his chest and vibrated against her lips as his body jerked violently against hers, and he finally succumbed to his own blistering release.
They stayed like that for a long moment, pinned against the wall, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her chest. He slowly lowered her to her feet, his arms still wrapped around her, holding her up as her legs felt like jelly. He rested his chin on the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the solid, real presence of him.
Her voice shuddered out. “I need to get into the shower, but I don’t think I can walk.”
Without a word, Breakneck moved, fluid, coiled. His arm moved to her back and his hips sidestepped her like it was a tactical move. He slipped his arms under her knees and in a powerful, lithe move, he lifted her, cradling her against his chest. “Just hang on to me until you feel strong enough to let go.”
“What if I never feel that strong?”
His eyes softened, his voice went wispy and aching. “Then hold on to me forever, babe.”
Later, as Blair stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against her shoulders until her skin prickled, she tried to catch her breath. It didn’t settle her. It didn’t quiet anything. If anything, it made the noise louder.
Breakneck was more than she’d thought. Fundamental. The way he listened. The way he saw. The way his presence had felt…inevitable. Like something she’d been circling for a long time without knowing it.
Her instincts had warned her from the start that he was trouble. So much trouble. She’d walked straight into him anyway.
She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped back into the bedroom, slipped into her robe and left the room, the scent of him still everywhere, soap, heat, something darker underneath. He was dressed now, moving easily around her kitchen, bare feet on the tile, sleeves pushed up as he poured coffee like he belonged there. That thought hit harder than it should have.
They ate standing close, hips brushing, the counter too small for the space between them. He told her about Virginia Beach without being prompted, about the ocean, the constant wind, the way the base felt like its own city, self-contained and relentless. He spoke about it like it was home, even as he kept his tone light.
She listened, leaning against him, nodding in the right places, aware of how naturally they fit.
This was temporary. It had to be. He was Navy. Tier 1. Locked into rules and deployments and a life that didn’t bend. She had built something here. Fought for it. Earned it. She’d invested years into her work, into not being derailed by anyone else’s gravity.
Yet she couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t stop leaning in when he spoke. Couldn’t stop letting her fingers trail over his forearm, his shoulder, the small of his back when she passed him in the narrow space between the counter and the table.
When she went to get dressed, he followed her into the bedroom without comment, scooping clothes off the chair so she could sit.
He paused, fingers catching on something soft and black.
“This looks like ballet stuff,” he said, holding up a pair of tights, running the fabric absently between his fingers. “You planning on more workouts?”
She smiled, tugging on her jeans. “Yes and no. I do ballet every day, but that stuff was sent over from my sponsor Pure Plié. She shrugged. “For my approval. It’s part of my clothing line. My brand is called, Pink by Brown.”
His head snapped up. “Clothing line,” he repeated. “Way to bury the lead, Brown.”
She laughed quietly. “I’ve been with them since my career took off. They stuck with me when I was forced to retire.”
She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. Flat. Tight. But the words landed anyway.
He rose immediately, closing the distance. “I’m sorry,” he said, and there was no hesitation in it. “Not about the clothing. About what you lost. That must’ve been hard. I can’t imagine.”
She reached up, cupped his face, ran her thumb along that tough, beautiful jaw. “Thanks. But it’s in the past. This keeps me connected.”
