Page 88 of Flint’s Strike

“I know. Fuck. I know.”

Hauling her against me, I guide us to the bed, pull back the throw, and ease her down. It takes me two tries to unzip my small bag. I tear the foil packet open with my teeth, then roll the condom over my length.

Carefully, I position myself over her, the mattress creaking slightly with the movement. Bracing my weight on my right forearm, I meet her gaze. “Tell me you want this, Parker.”

She looks up at me, pupils blown inside a ring of pale blue streaked with silver. Her fingers wrap around my left wrist, and she guides my hand between her thighs.

God, she’s so wet.

“Fuck me, Eliot. Now.” Her voice is raspy with need, and she grabs my ass and pulls me closer.

I plunge balls deep in a single thrust, and Parker arches her back with a little moan. Our first time was almost gentle, building slowly until neither of us could hold back any longer. This…this is heat and pure, raw need.

Her short nails dig into my ass, down the backs of my thighs. I grab onto the headboard, angling my hips, each thrust taking us closer and closer to the edge.

“Eliot…please… Harder!” Her whimpers turn into something more, and I seal my mouth to hers, swallowing the sounds until my balls draw up tight.

Parker flies apart first, a scream bursting from her throat to mine, because I won’t stop kissing her. Not for a second. Not even when my own release barrels through me, and the world turns white and my heartbeat roars in my ears.

I don’t remember collapsing against her. Or burying my face in the curve of her neck, the soft silk of her blond waves against my cheek.

I don’t remember her hooking her leg over mine. Or when her fingers started combing through my hair.

I only remember one thing. One clear memory that will stay with me forever.

The way she looked at my naked body. The way she wanted me. Broken pieces and all.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Parker

I wake to cool sheets next to me and the delicious scent of bacon wafting in from the kitchen.

Getting up feels…rude. He planned breakfast in bed, and I don’t want to take that away from him. So, I stretch, arms overhead, toes pointed, then flexed, reveling in the delicious soreness of the rather enthusiastic sex we had—twice—last night.

A cabinet door opens and closes. A pan slides against the burner. A single, muttered word I can’t quite make out, but with the distinct tenor of a curse.

Only a few minutes later, he nudges the cracked bedroom door open, a tray balanced against his hip. Two steaming mugs of coffee, two plates, silverware, napkins⁠—

Wait…

I sit up, scooting back against the headboard. “Eliot, I don’t own a tray.”

His cheeks flush red. “I stopped at the Dollar Mart on the way here. Figured if you had one, I wasn’t out much. And if you didn’t… I went down to my truck to grab it before I started cookin’.”

“You bought…a tray.”

“No one wants bacon grease on their sheets. Or worse. Coffee spillin’ onto the mattress. One of the rookies dumped a whole mug in one of the bunks at the firehouse his first week. We blasted the damn thing with the hose five times before our captain told us to throw the mattress in the trash and buy a new one.” Eliot smiles, a low, relaxed huff escaping his lips. “The rookie had to use a sleeping bag on the floor for a month.”

He sets the tray next to me, then reaches for the collar of his shirt. It’s the same one he wore last night, half buttoned and off center, sleeves shoved past his elbows. After he works it open, he stops and stares somewhere just above my shoulder. “I…you mind me takin’ this off?”

“No. Why would I?” Cupping the mug in both hands, I inhale the rich scent of coffee, and it hits me. “Eliot, your scars don’t bother me. If you want a t-shirt, I have a couple extra-large ones I wore at Recruit school. I went through trainin’ in the middle of winter, and I layered them over thermals.”

“Anything against the grafts is…irritating.” He tosses the shirt onto my cedar chest, slides into bed—careful not to jostle the tray—and props a pillow behind his back.

Oh.

“I like you mostly naked.” To prove my point, I lean over and press a kiss to his shoulder, then focus on the plates. Bacon, poached eggs over slices of last night’s bread, and… “You made hollandaise sauce? Without a double boiler. Before I woke up.”