She grinds more than rides now, chasing the pressure, takingme deep and holding there. I grip the back of her neck and bring her forehead to mine.
"Eyes on me when you come."
Her eyes lock on mine, and then she breaks apart, crying out my name. I get my hand over her mouth half a second too late. Her body clamps down so hard my vision goes dark.
She shakes through it—hips still rolling in small, involuntary waves—and I watch every second as it pulls me over with her.
I bury myself deep, hands locked on her hips, and come so hard the sound that escapes me doesn't sound human—just this raw, broken noise against her throat while she holds my head there, fingers tangled in my hair.
We stay pressed together, all sweaty and wrecked in the back of a dead man's Bentley.
I move my mouth to her shoulder, tasting salt.
"Three more days," she whispers.
Her hair is a disaster. Mascara smudged. Lips swollen. Sundress twisted sideways. She's absolutely glowing.
"Three more days," I echo. "Then this becomes something that happened to us. Not something happening to us."
"Promise me."
"I promise." I brush her hair back. "I'm getting you out. You and Hale. Whatever it costs."
She cups my face and kisses me. She tries to pull away twice, but I drag her back, not ready to let go.
Eventually she pushes off, laughing quietly as she checks her reflection. "I look destroyed."
"You look perfect."
She gives me a look, and I tug her back in before I can stop myself.
I can't get enough.
"I really have to go." She smooths her dress, combing her fingers through her hair like she's trying to erase what just happened.
She opens the door, then pauses with one foot on the concrete.
"Tristan."
"Yeah?"
"When this is over, when we're out and he can't touch us anymore." She glances over her shoulder. "I want a real date. Fancy dinner somewhere in New York. Candles. Wine I can't pronounce. No one trying to kill us."
A normal date.
Like I haven't spent years turning myself into a weapon because of her.
"It's a date, Red."
FORTY-SIX
KEIRA
We're getting sloppy.
I know it. He knows it. Neither of us seems interested in stopping.
It starts with stolen moments.
