Page 51 of Breach Point


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The bare skin exposed our scars to the morning light. Michael treated each one like it deserved a moment of silence. His fingers gently glided over my childhood bicycle scar's raised, silvery line, a testament to youthful adventures and missteps.

They lingered on the faded, puckered appendectomy mark at my hip, a reminder of a surgery long past, before moving to the small, smooth burn on my forearm, a relic from a long-ago kitchen mishap.

In return, I traced the thin, pale knife wound on his side, a slash that whispered of danger narrowly avoided. My fingers brushed the slightly indented bullet graze near his shoulder, a close call that spoke of the precarious line between life and death.

Finally, I felt the jagged, uneven scar across his brow, where a suspect's ring had once caught his eyebrow, leaving behind a permanent mark of the unpredictable risks he faced.

He guided me backward toward the bedroom, with our bodies flush against each other, skin warming where we touched. When my knees hit the mattress, he lowered me with surprising tenderness, his weight following me down, solid but balanced on his forearms.

"Is this okay?" he asked, voice roughened with desire but eyes serious, waiting for permission.

I nodded.

His lips brushed against mine, a whisper of a kiss that deepened as we pressed closer. His cock, hard against my thigh, twitched at the sound of my breath catching.

I reached between us, wrapping my fingers around his shaft, feeling the shiver that ran through his body. He groaned, a low rumble in his chest, and his mouth found my neck, tracing a line of heat to my collarbone.

He rolled us over, his muscled abs flexing beneath me. I straddled him, and he slid his hands up my inner thighs, but I wasn't ready for him to enter me. Instead, I gripped our cocks together, slowly stroking as I rolled my head back.

Michael moaned deeply. "You're so beautiful."

He flipped us again, and I wrapped my legs around him. His lips explored the curve of my shoulder.

"Tell me if—" he started, but I silenced him with a breathless, "Don't stop."

He smiled, a flash of teeth, and then he was kissing me again, and I was lost in him, in us, in the way the world had narrowed to just this bed, just this moment.

He reached for the drawer and retrieved the small tube and foil packet. He paused, a single heartbeat of hesitation, and then his hands returned to me, steady and sure. I watched as he tore open the packet with his teeth, the sharp scent of latex mingling with the musk of our skin, and he rolled the condom on with practiced ease.

The lube was cool as he spread it between us, slicking his fingers and then himself, a gasp escaping me at the sudden, thrilling cold. With a slow, almost reverent touch, he slipped two lubed fingers inside me, scissoring slightly to prepare me for his cock.

His breath came heavy as he positioned himself, and he looked at me again, eyes dark and face softer than I'd ever seen it. He pushed inside me, slowly, achingly slow, the stretch turning familiar.

I bit my lip, eyes closing as my body adjusted, welcoming the exquisite pressure and gentle insistence of his movement. He paused again, reading my expression.

I gripped his shoulders to urge him on. He began to move, his breath syncing with mine. I rocked against him, matching his rhythm, my hands tracing the contours of his back, feeling muscles shift beneath warm skin.

When we came, it wasn't like fireworks going off. It was more like two tectonic plates shifting when the pressure was too much, resulting in earthquakes and aftershocks.

There was a deep breath, a tremble, and a shared moment where our bodies moved as one. The room was full of the scents of sweat and musk.

Michael's face, usually so guarded, was open and raw—his brows furrowed, lips slightly open, and eyes locked onto mine like I was his lifeline in a raging sea. "God, I needed this," he murmured as our skin pressed together, sticky and hot.

He held me after, arms so tight around me I almost asked if he were afraid I'd disappear. His heartbeat gradually slowed against my chest, our skin cooling in the aftermath. He pressed his lips to my temple, not quite a kiss, more like assurance.

A terrified thought in the back of my mind told me to run. It said the connection was growing too deep too fast. If I escaped, I wouldn't have to deal with the possibility that I could lose someone again.

I pushed the flee response back and instead traced lazy patterns with a fingertip on Michael's bare chest, memorizing the texture of his skin. He was mine, at least for now.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to me," I mused. "Not even with Marissa. It was different with her—steady, gradual, built over years."

He tensed slightly at the comparison, but then, he reached up to weave his fingers together with mine.

"This is..." I searched for words that wouldn't trivialize what we'd found. "Immediate. Like something that was always there, waiting for us to find each other and notice."

"I know." He rolled onto his side to look at me. "It terrifies me."

The honesty in his admission made me hold him tighter. Neither of us had expected our connection. Neither of us prepared for it, but here we were, tangled in each other's arms, facing whatever came next.