Page 94 of Her Name in Red
“No, baby, you don’t. You need me to love you.”
“Yes,” I admit, voice breaking. “Yes, I need you to love me.”
Something changes in his rhythm, his thrusts becoming deeper, more deliberate. One hand slides around to find my clit, circling it with maddening precision.
“Then let go,” he commands, his voice gentler now but no less intense. “Let me feel you come apart.”
My thighs shake, muscles clenching around him as the sensation spirals tighter and tighter. I'm clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to anchor me as I feel myself slipping.
“I can't,” I gasp, overwhelmed by the intensity. “Riggs, I?—”
“You can.” His fingers press harder, moving faster. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”
I scream his name as my body convulses, clenching around him in pulsing spasms.
“Fuck, Maren—” Riggs groans, his rhythm faltering. His hands grip my hips with bruising force as he slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt. I feel him pulsing inside me, his cock twitching as he follows me over the edge with a hoarse shout.
For a moment, we're both suspended in that perfect space between pleasure and pain, life and death.
Then he collapses on top of me, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I should feel trapped, but instead, I feel...safe and protected. His breath comes in ragged pants against my neck, his heart hammering against my back.
We stay like that for what feels like forever, neither of us willing to break the connection. Eventually, he rolls to the side, taking me with him so we're spooned together, his arm draped possessively over my waist.
“Did I hurt you?” he murmurs against my hair, his voice soft with concern.
I almost laugh. After everything we've done to each other, he's worried about this?
“Only in the ways I wanted you to,” I assure him, threading my fingers through his where they rest against my stomach.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, gentler than anything that came before. “Good.”
Chapter 32
Riggs
I'm crossing the quad when I notice a small crowd gathered near the bulletin board outside the student center. There's a nervous energy I can feel from twenty feet away. A campus security officer stands at the edge, looking important but useless as usual.
“What's going on?” I ask some random girl on the fringe of the crowd.
She turns, eyes wide with the excitement of drama. “Emma Whitaker. She's missing. She didn't come back to her dorm last night.”
The name's vaguely familiar. Blonde and in a sorority. One of those girls who's in every club and knows everyone's name.
“Maybe she just crashed at her boyfriend's,” I suggest with a shrug.
“They found her purse by Lakeside Hall. Phone, keys, everything still in it.” The girl lowers her voice. “And there was blood.”
Relief washes over me, followed immediately by guilt. It wasn't us. It’s a girl first of all, but second of all Maren's beenwith me every night this week. We've been too wrapped up in each other for her to change her style.
But old habits die hard. I find myself scanning the post for details, looking for any connection to us, any loose thread that could unravel.
I force myself to walk away, pushing through a group of freshmen who look appropriately scared.
The west hallway of the humanities building is empty this time of day. My footsteps echo against the polished tile, and as I pass by the wall of windows, my reflection walks alongside me, distorted by the late afternoon sun. The glass is so clean it's almost a perfect mirror.
Something pulls me to stop. A feeling.
“Maren,” I whisper, half to myself, not expecting anything.
