Page 67 of Velvet Betrayal
She shook her head, then let it rest against my chest again, this time at peace. I knew she’d replay the conversation, turnit into something to armor herself with, but maybe, finally, it would stick. Maybe there was a version of history we could both walk forward from, instead of dragging the old ones behind us.
“You should’ve stayed away from me,” she said, not moving at all.
“I know. I should’ve.”
But I didn’t. I wouldn’t—not now, not in this life or any other. The morning ticked forward, the sky outside bruising deeper as winter pressed in. She stood in my arms, not moving, not even shivering in the draft, just one pulse in her jaw letting me know she was alive and, for the moment, relieved that someone else was, too.
She tilted her head up to look at me. “How do you deal with being this scared all the time?”
I shook my head. “I don’t,” I said, and leaned in, kissing her.
Kieran
She tasted like toothpaste and cold coffee. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her flush against me, every inch of her fitting like she was made for my hands. We just stood there, in the kitchen, not moving. The city was waking up around us—honking, sirens, the neighbor’s radio leaking through the walls—but here, it was just her, just me, and the click of inevitability that had been building since we were kids.
She tilted her head back and I kissed down the line of her throat, catching the pulse at her jaw with my lips. She made a sound—low, almost lost—and I felt it everywhere. I slid my hand up under her t-shirt, tracing the line of her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, counting them out like beads on a rosary. The shirt bunched up above her hips and I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of her jeans, just holding her there, not pulling, just making sure she couldn't drift away.
She tensed, half a sigh. “We can’t,” she whispered, lips brushing my ear. “I have to be at the courthouse in forty minutes. If we do, I’ll never make it.”
I grinned. “I can get you off in ten. Five, if you want.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Oh, yeah. I can already smell how wet you are.”
She laughed, but her hands were already sliding up under my arms, palms hot on my skin. “Now you’re just making promises you don’t intend to keep.”
“Promises are all I have,” I said, and took her wrist, walking her backwards until she hit the table.
The window was right there, less than a foot away—overlooking the alley, laundry lines, someone else’s kitchen lit up across the way. The city was a spectator, all the evidence of morning stacked up around us, but I didn’t care. I pressed in, nudging her knees apart so I could step between them. She was in shorts, and I loved her in shorts—loved how strong her thighs looked, how she never gave an inch.
I ran my hands up her ribs, under the shirt, feeling her heart hammering like it was about to break through her chest. “You’re obsessed,” she said, voice soft, almost reverent.
“Of course I’m obsessed. You’re you.”
I kissed her, slow at first, letting her taste linger, then harder, like I’d never learned to pace myself. She opened for me, hesitated, then really opened—tongue, teeth, her whole body arching into mine like she was starving for it.
She locked her hands behind my neck, holding me in place, like she could force every piece of herself into me and take every part of me in return. I got her shorts off and her up on the table, rough but careful, rough but careful, a rhythm that only made sense for us. She was hot and slick and ready, and all I had to do was slip my hand inside her, rub slow circles, and watch her eyes for the moment she’d let herself get lost.
She wanted to get lost. Bad. Every muscle in her leg braced against the edge, every turn of her neck fighting to keep the moan inside. I pressed my thumb harder, curled two fingers in, and she latched onto my wrist, half to protest, half to make sure I couldn’t stop.
“Do you want me to make you come with my hand?” I asked.
She looked at me, glassy, wild. “Yes,” she said, barely a whisper. Then, again, full force: “Yes.”
I fucked her with my hand and kissed her at the same time, so when she came—shuddering and desperate and angry—it was right into my mouth, like she wanted to swallow the world whole. Her cunt spasmed around my fingers, nearly knocked the fight out of me, but I held her through it, thumb steady even after she went limp and collapsed onto my shoulder, hair falling in a veil over her face.
I let her float there, the aftershocks running through her lips and jaw and everywhere, and for a minute it was just us, nothing else.
She straightened up, eyes half-lidded. She was about to say something, but instead wiped a streak of wetness from her cheek and started laughing. “You fucking—” she began, but let it die out. “You really do have a god complex.”
“Wait until you find out what I can do with my dick.”
She shot me a look. “That is not a selling point, Callahan.”
“You’re right,” I said, and pulled her closer. “It’s a public service. I’m very generous.”
“You’re charitable.”
