Page 43 of You've Got The Love
I unbuckle and climb into his lap, straddling him in the driver’s seat. His big hands catch my hips automatically, a low, guttural sound tearing from his chest as if he’s been holding himself back for miles.
“Fuck, Amber—” His voice is rough, frayed. Then his mouth crashes to mine, all teeth and need, kissing me like he’s been starved of it. His lips are hot, his stubble scraping my skin, and I taste the edge of coffee and adrenaline on his tongue.
I can feel how hard he is already, thick and solid against me through his jeans. I grind down instinctively, desperate for friction, and the pressure makes my head spin. His hands grip my arse, rough and claiming, rocking me against him like he can’t decide if he’s guiding me or holding himself together.
“We don’t have time,” he rasps against my neck, kissing, nipping, leaving heat in his wake. “But I need you—God, I fucking need you.”
“Then fuck me,” I whisper, breathless, my fingers twisted in his hair.
He doesn’t hesitate. One hand shoves my t-shirt up and yanks my leggings down just enough, the other fumbling with the button of his jeans. The metal scrapes against my thigh before the heat of him presses against me, thick and urgent. The moment he thrusts inside, hard and perfect, I gasp so loud it echoes in the van.
The shock of him—hot, stretching, filling—robs me of thought. My forehead drops to his shoulder, and my nails dig into the material of his jacket as he grips my hips, lifting me into a rhythm that’s fast and brutal, desperate in its need. The van creaks with every movement, the suspension rocking in time, the windows instantly fogging as heat blooms between us.
“Jesus, you’re so tight,” he groans, voice low and filthy in my ear. His words vibrate through me, curling low in my belly. “Been thinking about this… every damn night… and now you’re riding me like you’re mine.”
“I am,” I pant, bouncing in his lap, chasing the sharp edge of pleasure. “Bas—God—I am.”
He growls, one hand sliding up my spine, the other fisting in my hair. He tilts my head back and devours my mouth in a kiss that’s almost violent, all hunger and need. Every thrust drives me higher, sharp shocks of pleasure tightening mycore until the rest of the world—forest, van, danger—ceases to exist.
I shatter first, my whole body tightening, pulsing around him as I cling to his broad shoulders. The sound that rips from my throat is half sob, half scream, muffled against his neck. He groans my name, low and raw, and follows me over the edge with one last rough thrust and a muttered, “Fuck, Amber—yes?—”
We collapse against each other, trembling, the van filled only with our ragged breathing, the tick of the cooling engine, and the whisper of wind through the pines. My cheek rests against the warmth of his neck, and for a moment, the danger outside feels like a bad dream.
But reality creeps back in. The Reapers are still out there. The black van could find us again. We’re still running.
Bastiaan’s hand slides up my back, holding me tight as his breath slows. “You okay?” he murmurs against my hair.
I nod, though my chest still feels tight. “I… I just needed to feel you. To forget. Even for a minute.”
His lips brush my temple. “I know. I needed it too.”
For that quick, desperate moment, we are the only two people in the world. And even though the fear waits just outside these fogged windows, wrapped in pine-scented air and the echo of tyres on wet roads, I feel… lighter.
Because no matter what waits for us out there, I’m not facing it alone.
Chapter 25
Bastiaan
Night falls slow and heavy in the Danish forest.
The van is parked deep in a clearing, pines rising around us like silent guards. Rain has left the air damp and cold, the smell of wet earth and pine needles creeping in through the cracked window. Somewhere out there, the world is hunting us—but here, for now, it’s just shadows and the low hum of the lantern in the corner.
Amber sits cross-legged on the folded-down seat, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her curls a mass of gold in the soft battery light. She’s talking about Jess and Andrea, her voice low and wistful, and I pretend I’m only half-listening as I rinse our plates in the tiny basin and wipe down the counter.
The truth? I hear every word. I always hear her.
“…I just keep seeing their faces when they knew the wreath was for me,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the dark forest outside the fogged window. “I hated leaving them there, no real answers. Hate that they are vulnerable because of me.”
Her voice cracks at the end. That tiny break spears straight through my chest.
“They’re safe,” I say, crouching opposite her, elbows on my knees. “Jack won’t let anything happen to them.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced. Her eyes are far away, somewhere inHampstead Island, in the florist shop that smells of roses and eucalyptus, with a bell that rings softly every time the door opens.
The space between us feels like an ocean. I want to close it. I want to drag her into my arms and let her forget the world exists. But the guilt is heavy tonight, a solid stone heavy in my chest.
I shouldn’t want her like this.
