Page 77 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

She sobs out a yes, and I groan, low and filthy, grinding in deep, balls tight, the curve of her ass smacking against my thighs as I pound into her.

My free hand smacks her ass once. Hard. She locks up around me and it’s a goddamn death grip. I’m about to lose it.

“That’s it,” I grit, leaning over her, mouth to her ear. “Come for me again. I wanna feel it. Wanna feel you milk me while I fill you up.”

She shakes beneath me, crying out as her pussy pulses again, squeezing so hard around my cock I snarl through my teeth and grab her tighter.

I fuck her through it, chasing the edge until it hits me like a sledgehammer, my orgasm tearing through me like a goddamn explosion, thick spurts flooding her as I slam deep, hold still, and just spill into her.

I stay there, buried to the hilt, both hands on her hips, panting. Possessive.

She collapses forward, and I follow, blanketing her body with mine, breath ragged against the back of her neck, still twitching inside her.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, sweetheart,” I whisper, kissing her shoulder. “And I’ll die grateful.” I press a kiss to the nape of her neck. Then another. Then one to her shoulder, softer still. My hand slides up her spine, grounding her. Grounding me.

I shift gently, easing out of her, trying not to jostle her too much. She whimpers at the loss, and I shush her, palm on her lower back, soothing.

“I’ve got you,” I say. “You’re okay. I’ve got you now.”

I pull back just enough to see her face, her eyes half-lidded, dazed, lips parted and swollen from earlier. She’s never looked more loved.

I cup her cheek. “You still with me?”

She nods, but I see the fatigue, the overwhelm, the flickers of something darker still haunting the edges of her gaze. Tonight wasn’t just about sex, it was blood and death and survival. And now... she’s in my arms.

My responsibility.

My everything.

I leave her just long enough to wet a soft cloth and then begin to clean her gently, wiping between her thighs with slow, careful strokes. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say quietly. “You’re not alone anymore. You hear me?”

Her eyes shimmer when she looks at me. No walls. No shields. Just that raw, aching want to believe me.

I lean up and kiss her, soft and sure. “You don’t have to carry anything by yourself now. Not the guilt. Not the fear. Not the mess.”

She swallows hard.

“I’ll carry it with you,” I promise. “Every fucking piece.”

She leans forward, arms wrapping around my neck again, and I hold her tight, rocking her slightly, letting her bury her face in my shoulder.

Eventually, I slide in behind her so she can lean against me, her back to my chest. My arms around her. My mouth brushing her temple every now and then, just to remind her I’m here. You’re safe. We’re okay.

And we just... breathe.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Blake

I arrive twenty minutes early. Twenty-five, if you count the time I spent pacing outside her porch, clutching a basket like some overgrown Little Red Riding Hood with a baking kink.

Inside the basket: backup flour (unbleached, obviously), two silicone spatulas, a whisk, three kinds of sprinkles, because choices matter, and the world’s stupidest apron that says “WHISK TAKER” in bold Comic Sans. I almost left it at home. I almost wore it naked. Compromise: it’s folded neatly between the cocoa powder and my crushing need for validation.

I’m here to help Jennifer bake cupcakes for the fair. The fair. Like,thefair. Where normal people bring casseroles and buy homemade soap and definitely don’t show up high on adrenaline and sexual frustration, hoping to win a blue ribbon and maybe also get railed over a kitchen island.

“Chill,” I whisper to myself, adjusting my grip on the basket. “You’re not here to get laid. You’re here to bake. Like a man. A man with a hand mixer and unspoken feelings.”

I knock. The door opens. There she is. Ponytail. Bare feet. Flour already on one cheek like a goddamn magazine spread titled Domestic Goddess Who Could End You. I swear I forget how to swallow.

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