And her body is betraying her. She’s tightening around my cock and her breath hitches in her throat. She’s trying to holdback—I can feel it in the way her legs lock at my sides as she holds my gaze like bulls locked with their horns.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall for this woman. This is the sort of sex men dream about, and I’m not totally sure I’m awake. I’ll spend my lifetime basking in the way her naked form is illuminated in the dusky light of evening, how the sinking sunlight catches her eyes, making them appear more like actual gold than anything made of blood and flesh.
And the way she finally calls me by my name, her hands returning to the handlebars to brace herself to keep from falling as her back curves from the force of her orgasm. My movements are relentless, fucking her hard as she rides the waves of pleasure into a tsunami of ecstasy. I find my own release through the twitch of her hips and the slick, tight heat of her pussy as she comes down from her high.
We are panting and staring at each other, trying to decode the moment as we gain composure. But before a word can pass between us, headlights are sliding over the hill, and I am a blur of movement as I throw my leather jacket over her and tuck my cock into my pants. Protective arms lock around her, enveloping her to make it look as though we are just a couple enjoying the overlook.
She’s giggling, and I know this woman is going to completely ruin me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
EVERY TIME
HAZEL
Ijust fucked Zack on a motorcycle.
I feel alive—I feel everything all at once after Zack and I broke down the wall he had so dutifully placed up around himself—but the aftershocks of what the two of us did together is life changing. The world feels quieter afterward, like someone turned the volume down without asking.
We’re back at the safe house now, the motorcycle cooling somewhere outside, metal ticking softly as it settles. I’m curled up on the edge of the bed with my knees tucked to my chest, wrapped in one of Zack’s shirts again, because apparently that’s just my life now. My curly hair is in a low bun, my skin warm, my body humming with that strange combination of exhaustion and clarity that only comes when something important has happened and your brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.
I don’t feel fragile.
That’s the thing that surprises me the most after everything that’s happened in this short amount of time.
I feel…solid. Present. Like I’m actually inside my body instead of hovering just above it, waiting for something to go wrong. The ride had been freedom—speed and air, laughter ripping straight through the fear—but what came after was quieter, slower, and heavier in a way that mattered. Not reckless, just two people choosing to stop running for a moment.
Zack moves around the room without speaking, giving me space without disappearing, and I track him with my eyes in that lazy, content way that makes me feel slightly ridiculous and not sorry about it at all. He looks different now, like something in him finally unclenched—like he let himself exist instead of just guarding the perimeter of every room he’s in.
When he sits beside me, close but not crowding, the contact of our shoulders brushing feels grounding instead of electric, and I realize how rare that is for me. I’m used to intensity being loud, overwhelming, all-consuming. This is quieter. Deeper.
“I don’t regret it,” I say suddenly, because the thought pops into my head fully formed and demanding to be acknowledged.
He turns toward me, his brows pulling together slightly. “I wasn’t worried that you would.”
“I was,” I admit, smiling faintly. “Not about you—about me. I’m very good at convincing myself I’ve made mistakes after the fact.”
He studies my face like he’s reading something between the lines. “And?”
“And I didn’t disappear,” I say softly. “I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than what I was in the moment.”
That seems to land somewhere important, because his hand shifts slightly on the bed, closer but still careful, like he’s giving me the option without pressure. I take it, threading my fingers through his, surprised again by how natural it feels.
For so long, my body has been a place where bad things happened, where I had to endure instead of choose. What happened today was a choice. Consent. Trust. It didn’t erase what came before it—nothing could—but it reminded me that my story doesn’t end at the worst chapter.
I lean my head against his shoulder, and he doesn’t stiffen or pull away. He just stays.
“Thank you,” I murmur. Not just for today—not just for the rescue, or the ride, or the way he looks at me like I’m real and not breakable—but for seeing me when I wasn’t performing and still wanting me close.
He exhales slowly. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting you safe.”
“I know,” I say. “I just wanted to say it anyway.”
We sit there for a while, no rush, no urgency, the quiet stretching comfortably between us. And for the first time since Detroit, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the next thing to hit.
Whatever comes next will come.
But right now, I’m here. I’m warm, chosen, and fully myself.
