The first few strokes were controlled, measured, like he was still trying to protect me from the full force of him. But I didn't want protection. I wanted him—all of him, the parts he kept locked down behind that professional exterior, the parts that only came out in the dark.
"Harder," I demanded.
His eyes flashed. "Yeah?"
"God, yes."
He gave me what I asked for.
The rhythm changed, deepened, became something primal. He drove into me with a force that rocked the bed, that made me cry out with every thrust. His hand found my throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control. I let my head fall back, offered him the vulnerable line of my neck, and he took it. His mouth closed over my pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
"More," I heard myself say. The word didn't sound like it belonged to me—this raw, desperate version of my voice. But it was mine. All mine.
God help me.
Nick responded by hooking an arm under my knee, bending me nearly in half. The new angle made me gasp, made him sink deeper than I thought possible. His rhythm didn't falter. If anything, it intensified, each stroke driving me higher, closer to an edge I couldn't see but could feel approaching like a wave in the dark.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I forced my eyes open. Found his in the moonlight.
"I want you to see who makes you come." His voice was gravel and heat. "I want you to remember this. Remember me."
As if I could forget. As if any part of me would ever be the same after this.
My release broke through me without warning, a hard, blinding pulse that left me gasping. I cried out his name, or tried to. It came out broken, fragmented, lost in the sound of my own shattered breathing. My body gripped him hard, and he groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep.
"That's it," he gritted out. "That's—fuck, Juliette—"
He surrendered to the fall. I felt the sudden, violent tension in his spine, his hips locking against mine as he found his own release. He didn't break; he simply anchored himself to me, his weight a steady, grounding force.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The only sound was the slow, even sweep of the bamboo fans overhead as the air slowly began to cool against our skin.
Eventually, he shifted to the mattress beside me, one arm heavy across my stomach, his face turned into the pillow. His breathing remained ragged, a slow, uneven match to my own.
We lay like that until the world stopped spinning.
Chapter 9
Mud Happens
NICK
Thesheetshadgonecold on her side of the bed.
Juliette was a bare curve against me, her breathing settled into a low, even cadence. I didn’t move. My arm was trapped under the weight of her waist.
I’m going to regret this by sunrise.
“Well,” she said.
Her voice was a low rasp, stripped of the polish she used like a weapon during the day.
I laughed—didn't sound like me—and lifted my head to look at her. She looked like a mistake I might make again.
“Well,” I agreed. “That’s one word for it.”
“I’m usually more articulate.”
