Page 60 of Velvet Betrayal
“But you like me like this.”
She tilted her chin, defiant, flushed. “Maybe I like you better when you’re bleeding.”
“Then come get your fix,” I said, and kissed her—deep, messy, like a dare and a thank-you all at once. She kissed backlike she was trying to rewrite our past in the press of her mouth. Like it hurt not to.
I slid my hand up under her shirt, cupped her breast, thumbed her nipple until she arched against me. “Still mad at me?” I murmured.
“Always.” She hooked her foot behind my leg and yanked. “Now take your fucking pants off.”
I let her go just long enough to pull my shirt over my head. Her hands were already on my belt. “You’re bossy,” I said.
“Only way to keep you in line.”
She palmed me through my boxers, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “God, I missed this,” she muttered. “Missed you.”
“Yeah?” I slid my fingers down between her legs, hooked the cotton aside, and pressed in. She gasped—sharp and sweet, hips chasing me like she’d been starving for it.
“You have no idea,” she said, voice breaking.
But I did. God, I did.
I walked her backward to the bed, fell with her, rolled us together into the light. And for a second, everything else—the Crew, the city, the bruises, the blood—just stopped.
It was just her. Just us. Still fighting. Just in a different language now.
I spread her, thumbed her open, and pushed in, every inch of need since the first time I lost her pouring out all at once. She took it, all of it, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut like she could shatter the light behind her lids.
I set a rhythm—slow, deep, punishing and healing at the same time—hands braced on her hips as she arched, clawing for more, less, anything but now.
She pressed her legs wide, heels hooked on the edge of the bed, dragging me deeper. Every thrust knocked the air out of her, made her whisper little fuck-you prayers that just made me want her more.
I felt the tremor in her, the heat before she broke, and I grabbed her face, made her look at me. That was always our thing: no blinking, no shyness, just raw honesty, too much to hide.
I almost lost it first—the stitches at my temple flared, everything went spotty and pink.
“Do you want to come inside me?” she whispered, voice shaking.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I groaned, barely holding on. “You want me to?”
She dug her heels in, met every stroke with a dare and a surrender. “Yes,” she said, pinching my jaw so I had to look at her. “Right now. I need you to come inside me—fuck, you’re so good at this, I love your big fucking dick, fuck—”
She came so hard it bucked me up against the raw spot on my head, stars exploding behind my eyes. She tried to swallow the sound—my name, broken and wild—but I heard it, felt it in the way her body clamped down, wringing every last ounce out of me.
It broke me. I came, hard, deep, cupping the back of her neck like I was drowning and she was the only air left. For a second, the universe shrank down to just this: her wrapped around me, the heat spilling into her, the wet, messy knot of our bodies making one more tally in the book of shared mistakes. I didn’t want to let go. Neither did she.
Her knees locked at my hips, and I stayed inside, not moving except to collapse forward, skin to skin, catching our breath in the tangled mess of her hair. She was trembling. So was I.
We never learned how to trust what came after. Even the afterglow felt like freefall, waiting for the punchline or the sniper or the next round of daylight.
She laughed—ragged, gorgeous. “You know, statistically, you’re not supposed to fuck with a head injury.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I said, voice shredded. “But you looked at me like that, and it didn’t seem right to die tomorrow when I could do this again.”
She kissed my forehead, careful to dodge the stitches. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yours, though,” I said.
