Page 96 of Blood & Throttle
“Because you were still in the room.”
Her breath stutters.
That silence stretches between us, thick and full of everything we’ve never said. Everything we won’t. She finishes the stitch, cuts the thread with her blade, and tapes the bandage down.
Then she sits back on her heels and just looks at me.
“I told you not to get hurt.”
“And I told you not to get involved.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well. Guess we’re both shit at listening.”
A beat passes. Then she leans in slowly and presses her lips to the skin just above the bandage. It’s soft. Careful. Her mouth lingers like she’s trying to seal the wound shut with heat and silence.
And then she looks up.
“You didn’t have to let me come.”
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to,” she says, voice so quiet it barely cuts through the noise in my head. “Jace made it personal. So now it’s personal.”
The words land heavier than I want them to. My gut knots, instincts screaming at me to stay focused, to stay ready, but her fingers move to my belt and everything inside me locks tight. My breath catches, sharp and unwilling.
I’m not good at this shit. At letting go of control. But then she looks up at me, steady, unflinching and for a second, the noise in my head goes still.
"You've done enough for me. For all of us," she whispers, barely a breath, but it hits harder than any punch ever could. "Let me do something for you."
Every muscle in my body’s coiled tight. Every instinct clawing at me to push her back, to stay guarded.
Already choosing to be there, and for once in my goddamn life, I let her. Before I can even answer, she slides down between my legs slowly.
Her palms trail along my thighs as she sinks to her knees, never breaking eye contact. The room tilts around us, narrowing down to nothing but the heat of her breath against my skin and the way my chest tightens so fucking hard it hurts.
I don’t stop her. I don’t tell her no.
Because in this moment? It’s not about control or dominance.
It’s about surrender.
About my little stray giving it, and for once in my fucking life, me letting her.
Her fingers move to my belt, unfastening it with deft, unhurried movements. She’s taking her time. Drawing it out. Making me feel every second of it.
The leather slides free. She pops the button on my pants, pulls the zipper down slow enough that the scrape of it sounds like a gun cocking in the dead silence between us.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My hand fists in her hair, wrapping tight, holding her there. Not to force her, just to anchor myself.
Because the second she touches me, I know I’m going to come undone.
“That’s the idea,” she whispers, voice thick and wrecked too, like this is undoing her as much as it’s undoing me.
Her hands are gentle but sure as she frees me, palms curling around the base of my cock, already hard and heavy with everything I’ve been holding back.
She doesn’t rush.
