Page 77 of Velvet Betrayal
“Slow down,” I said. “I want to enjoy you for as long as I can.”
Her face twisted, beautiful and brutal, but she didn’t slow—not at first. Her hands left my neck and flattened against my chest, nails biting in as I drove into her—not with the franticenergy of teenagers or the clumsy desperation of old lovers, but like an argument, every thrust proof that we’d keep doing this, over and over, until one of us left town or the city finished us.
After a while, the pace softened, but her grip never did. She clung to me, every muscle straining at the edge, and when she came, it was like a breach—full-body, silent, her mouth open but no sound, her lashes shaking in the kitchen light. She clawed me in, not to end it but to trap it, maybe to trap me.
She pulsed around me and I had to squeeze my eyes shut, go blank, just to keep from coming with her. When she finally collapsed against my chest, boneless and shaking with aftershocks, her hair still glowing at the edge of my vision, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in months.
“Are you going to come inside me?” she asked.
She was still catching her breath, laughter and tears all tangled up at her mouth, her hands up under my shirt, cold and electric. I bit her shoulder, drew another gasp as her hips locked around me.
“You know I want to,” I said, the words shaking out of me. “Fuck, you feel so good. I can’t hold it.”
She grinned, teeth bright with triumph, and rocked me in deeper. “Go for it,” she said, like it was a dare or a joke or both. Even now, in a kitchen that looked like a crime scene, she could make me want forever.
So I did. I came, hard, every pulse of it a tattoo of her name down my spine, every nerve raw and perfect. For a long, blinding moment, the world went white—my hands braced on the counter, my forehead in her hair, the only sound our ragged breathing filling the kitchen like a warning or a promise.
When it was over, we just stayed there, her legs around me, her arms locked up my back like she’d keep me there for another lifetime.
The kitchen was wrecked. A raw onion rolled along the backsplash; the mug had exploded, glaze spiderwebbing across the tile. I slipped out, careful, then helped Ruby down, our hands still tangled even as her feet found the floor. She wobbled, grinning, the kind of smile that meant she was already counting up the damage, and then she kissed me, slow and deliberate.
“I should fight you harder,” she whispered against my jaw. Her hair sparked with static, and I thought: she’ll run again, any second.
“That didn’t seem like fighting.”
She snorted, relaxed, curled her hand around my biceps, then slid it down to the waistband still loose at my hips. “Maybe I just didn’t want the mess all over the kitchen.” She cocked her head. “Or maybe I wanted you to remember who always wins the rematch.”
I grinned, felt the heat flicker up in her as she pressed against me, and for a second—just one—I let myself believe it. Maybe we couldn’t fix the old wounds, but maybe we could wear them together.
“You are on birth control, right?” I asked as I started picking up the pieces of the kitchen.
She shot me a look—equal parts murder and comedy. “Yes, oh my God,” she said, every syllable a punch. “I’m not deranged. I may be many things, but I’m not doing that to a kid twice.”
She bent to pick up a chunk of mug, then laughed as she realized her hands were still shaking.
I put on my best innocent face. “You could’ve just told me to pull out.”
She pointed a shard at me, deadly as a switchblade. “That’s how you get dishware in the walls. And don’t do the puppy dog thing. I saw you practice it in the mirror, remember?”
I remembered. For a second, I let the memory play out: Ruby, naked except for a sheet, sprawled across the pillow likea challenge to the universe, watching me shave until I made my fake sad-face and she nearly choked laughing.
She rinsed her hands under the tap, flicked the drops away, and checked the clock. “If we’re doing this again, you’re buying me a new mug.”
“Deal,” I said. “I’ll get you a whole set.” I found a mug with a dumb Fenway Park cartoon, held it out, and she took it—and didn’t let go.
She leaned back against the counter, breathing even, mug between us. For once, I let the quiet stretch. I watched her drink. She sipped slow, like she was testing for poison, for the aftertaste of regret.
I didn’t want to move. If I reached for her, she might bolt upstairs, hide in her kid’s empty bed until morning, and I’d spend the night watching shadows for threats I couldn’t see. But I knew she wouldn’t. Not this time. The air had shifted, and she knew who’d be here in the morning.
“Are you going to tell Tristan?” she asked. “About my plans.”
“Yeah. I have to. It’s the only way right now.”
“Why?” she said.
“Because,” I told her, “it’s the only way to keep you safe. You get that, right?”
She shrugged. Almost shook her head. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”
