Page 63 of Duty Devoted
Our clothes stayed mostly in place—shifted aside just enough. His shirt pushed up, my pants pushed down, both of us too desperate for connection to care about full undressing. He positioned himself over me, then paused, some awareness breaking through.
“Your side?—”
I pulled him down, cutting off his words with another kiss. The stitches pulled, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t about being careful. This was about being alive.
He entered me in one long thrust, both of us gasping at the connection. No buildup, no preparation beyond the desperate need to join. I was wet enough from emotion and adrenaline that my body accepted him without resistance.
There were no words after that. Just his weight pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against my neck, the sound of skin against skin in the dim room. He moved without finesse, without rhythm at first—just raw, driving need. I pulled him deeper, ignoring the protest from my side.
This wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful. His hands gripped my hip and arm hard enough to bruise, and I welcomed it. Every thrust was an affirmation—we’re here, we’re alive, we survived. My nails found his back through his shirt, holding on as he drove into me with increasing desperation.
The joining was primal, almost violent in its intensity. Two people using their bodies to chase away death and memory and all the horrors that tried to claim them. I bit down on hisshoulder to muffle the sounds escaping me, tasted salt and sweat and life.
When release crashed over him, his whole body went rigid, a guttural sound torn from his throat. He pressed deep and held there, shuddering through it while I held him tight. The physical sensations were secondary to the emotional release—feeling him let go, feeling him choose life and connection over the darkness that had tried to pull him under.
We stayed joined afterward, both of us breathing hard, neither willing to separate. His weight on me felt necessary, grounding. The silence between us wasn’t empty—it overflowed with everything language couldn’t carry.
Eventually, he shifted slightly, taking some weight on his elbows, but stayed inside me. His forehead rested against mine, eyes closed, breath evening out slowly.
We should both get up, but neither of us did. Neither of us wanted to lose this connection.
Nothing else mattered. Just this. Just us.
Chapter 21
Logan
The room was still dark,though I could sense dawn wasn’t far off. Lauren’s breathing had evened out against my chest, her body still wrapped around mine.
I shifted carefully, trying not to wake her, but she let out a soft moan of pain in her sleep. The sound hit me hard. She’d run miles through the jungle with a gunshot wound, bleeding the whole time, while I pushed her harder, demanded more speed.
Then I’d had a complete mental breakdown when she needed me to be strong.
And let’s not even talk about the sex. Two-pump chump here couldn’t have exactly given her the thrill of her life. Still, she was pressed against me, one hand splayed across my chest, so she couldn’t be feeling that bad about it. But I still was.
I eased myself away from her warmth, every muscle protesting the movement. The cheap mattress creaked. In the dim light filtering through the boarded window, I could see thedark circles under her eyes. She was exhausted, and I couldn’t blame her.
The bathroom was barely more than a closet with a toilet and sink, but the water ran clear when I tested it. I wet a washcloth and returned to the bed. Dirt still dulled her honey-blonde hair from where I’d tried to disguise it. Her stitches looked okay. At least I’d gotten those done before I fell apart.
I cleaned myself first, then wet the cloth again and began gently washing the blood from around her wound. She stirred at the touch, green eyes fluttering open.
“Time to go?” Her voice came out rough with sleep.
“Almost. Getting you cleaned up a little first.” I kept my movements careful around the wound.
“Logan.” She caught my wrist as I reached for fresh bandages. “Stop.”
“The wound needs?—”
“Not the wound. The guilt.” She pushed herself up on one elbow, wincing. “I can see it all over your face.”
“You don’t know what you’re seeing.”
“Don’t I?” She studied me. “You’re cataloging failures—not noticing I was hurt, having a trauma response, the sex.”
I pulled my hand free, got up to rinse out the cloth, and then came back.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
