Page 56 of Unmasked Rivalry
“You want it to go away?” I whisper.
“If I can’t have you, then yeah, I want it to go the fuck away.”
“What if you could have me?”
He pulls back. “Don’t play with me, baby. I can’t handle much more.”
My heart twists so hard it might rip in two. “I just need to know that what you’re saying is the truth.”
He breathes it out, soft as a curse. “I love you. That’s the truth.”
It is my undoing.
I throw my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine, and the kiss is nothing like before—it is hungry, desperate, full of the ache of two busted hearts trying to fit together again. He is all hands and heat, clutching me like a lifeline, and I am all claws and teeth and wanting. I push him back against the shed, slam my mouth against his, biting, devouring.
He groans and lifts me off the ground, my legs finding his hips by instinct, and then he spins me, pinning me to the wall with a low growl. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
I answer by yanking his shirt open, buttons pinging against the barn siding. “Oh, we’ll see. Depends on how you do now.”
He grins, wrecked and beautiful, and returns the favor, hauling up my shirt with calloused hands that leave fire trails across my skin. He gets his hands under the waistband of my jeans, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my hips. He isn't delicate, but I don't want delicate. I want all the sharp, violent, real parts of him—the parts he's kept hidden, the parts that match the broken pieces inside me.
We fumble, cursing and laughing and crashing together against the roughness of the shed wall. The steel digs into my back through my thin shirt, but the pain only heightens everything else. His belt buckle clangs against the ground as he shoves his jeans down, and then he is inside me and the world slams to a halt.
It is rough, primal, like we're both trying to crawl inside each other's skin. He buries his face in my neck, his stubble scrapingthe sensitive skin there as he groans my name, like he can't believe I'm there. His hands grip my thighs so tight I know I'll bruise, fingerprints marking me as his. I don't care. I want the bruises, maybe even need them, so I know this happened, that this is real, not a fever dream I will wake from.
I drag my nails down his back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath my fingertips, wanting to leave my own marks on him. We move against each other, hard and fast, the rhythm desperate and unforgiving. His mouth finds mine again and again, our kisses turning from hungry to something almost violent, teeth clashing, lips swollen. I taste blood—his or mine, I don't know.
I feel all of the hurt and anger and love between us burn away with each thrust until there's just the two of us, nothing left in the world but sweat and skin and forgiveness. His breathing grows ragged, his movements more erratic, and I know he's close. I wrap my legs tighter around him, urging him deeper, harder.
The climax builds at the base of my spine, a gathering storm that finally breaks and rips through me with such force that I bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name. He follows immediately, his whole body going rigid against mine as he shudders, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, holding me so tight against him I can barely breathe.
For a long time, neither of us moves. We stay locked together, my back pressed against the shed wall, his forehead resting against mine, just listening to each other pant. Our hearts race in sync, thundering against our ribcages like they're trying to break free and merge into one. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are softer than I've ever seen them, the usual storm in them temporarily calmed.
He finally lifts his head, his hair wild, eyes soft. “Forgive me now?”
I laugh, softly. “I think so.”
Maybe everything is still a mess. Maybe we’re both damaged goods. Maybe the only thing we will ever be good at is breaking each other, then putting the pieces together again. But for the first time in my life, I really don’t care. He is mine, and I am his, and if that’s a disaster waiting to happen, then at least it will be our disaster, together.
I grab his hand, squeeze it tight, and know that whatever comes next, we’ll survive it.
IN THE MORNING, THEbarn is cold and humming with the kind of nervous static that only comes from setting up a crime scene in broad daylight. We’re all hungover on adrenaline and not nearly enough sleep. Zane’s already up there, plugging in relays and sensors, walking around with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
He has everyone to work. The girls are cleaning something for him, their hands dipped in soapy tubs, and the guys are carrying things in and out and assembling things I don’t even try to understand. Ruger is here, too, straight into work like he hasn’t just spent the last chunk of his life in prison.
I stand outside the barn, the dew soaking through my shoes, just absorbing the view. The pasture glows pale gold. The cows look peaceful and dumb, haunted by none of this, and I try to borrow a little of their oblivion. I hate to admit it, but this place is kind of growing on me.
The peace.
Ruger appears at my side. He bumps my shoulder, grinning like he just won the lottery. Hell, maybe he did. Freedom probably tastes pretty damn good. “You ready for this?”
I shrug, arms crossed tight. “Ready as I’ll ever be. You?”
He gestures at the barn and all the chaos. “I have been waiting for this moment since the second I heard about Harper’s death. Watching that fucker go down will be the best thing I have ever witnessed. Are you sure, though, that this is what you want to do?”
“I don’t want to do anything,” I admit, “but if we don’t finish it, we’ll never be free. I sure as hell don’t want to end up like Harper.”
Knox appears in the doorway, squinting against the glare, his hair a mess and his arms smeared up with grease. Just the sight of him sets something low in my stomach fluttering into motion. I will never understand why the man looks better the more destroyed he gets. “Mornin’,” he nods in Ruger’s direction.
