“Please,” she whispered, the word catching in her throat. “Help me forget.”
twenty-five
He should have saidsomething noble, or at least rational. Reminded her again that she was in shock. That whatever this was, it would be a disaster in the light of day. He knew she’d regret it, knew she wasn’t really to give him more than her body.
He was powerless to resist her when she gripped his shirt and opened her mouth against his like a dare. She didn’t kiss like a person seeking comfort; she kissed like a person lighting a match in a dynamite factory and daring you to care about the consequences.
He tried to pace it, to force them both into a rhythm that felt safe and measured, but Rue seemed determined to dismantle every defense he’d ever built. Her tongue chased his. Her hands, small and chilled, tunneled under his shirt, palms skidding to the small of his back, pulling him in until there was no daylight, no hesitation, nothing but steam and her. She crowded his senses, and in that moment, all the rules he’d built up snapped like a frozen branch.
He backed her against the shower wall, caging her in with his body, and kissed her back.
It wasn’t the calculated, careful thing he’d imagined on the hundred other nights he’d thought about her. It was desperate and wild, clashing teeth and the taste of salt and soap and sorrow. He barely broke the kiss long enough to shed his coat, his scarf, and hoodie to get skin against skin. She took full advantage of the break, shedding her layers until she stood before him in only her bra and panties.
The first touch of her bare skin under his hands was electric—no, not electric, nuclear. He felt the world tunnel down to the points of contact: her mouth hot and demanding against his, the hardened peaks of her nipples dragging across his chest with each ragged breath, her hands in his hair, yanking just enough to send a jolt down his spine that coalesced in his cock.
She was trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold anymore. If anything, she was fever-hot, and he wanted to lose himself in that heat. Wanted to forget Praetorian, the bodies down the hall, the black filaments, the danger waiting for them back at Thwaites. For once in his life, he didn’t want to be three steps ahead, calculating risks and outcomes. He just wanted this—her mouth against his, her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer like she couldn’t bear any distance between them.
“Elliot,” she breathed against his lips, and hearing his name broke everything loose inside him. He’d spent years building walls around this, around her, telling himself it was for her protection as much as his own. Now those walls crumbled beneath the weight of her desperation and his own carefully controlled need.
He skimmed his lips against her jaw, down her neck to her breasts. She still wore a sports bra. He’d never thought he’d see her like this, not in any scenario less than a fever dream: Rue Bristow, braced against the cracked tile, every line of her body drawn up and wild, hair soaked and dripping, eyes blown wide and hungry. The sports bra was a neon slash against her flushedskin, the only barrier left between his hands and her, and it was barely holding its own. He cupped her breast, thumb dragging over the damp fabric until he felt the sharp swell of her nipple, hard and urgent against his palm. She arched into his touch, impatient, greedy for contact.
He wanted to memorize every inch of her, but she didn’t give him the luxury. She caught the hem of the bra and yanked it up, the movement awkward and determined. He helped, hands fumbling at the clasp, but she was already shoving it overhead, tossing it aside. The sight of her bare breasts—skin flushed from the shower, nipples tight and dark from the cold and whatever storm raged inside her—nearly undid him. He ducked his head to close his mouth around one, heat and salt and Rue, and her gasp cracked through him like a live wire.
Her hands dug into his hair, holding him there, as if she didn’t trust him not to vanish. He could taste her pulse, fast and frantic, against the curve of her breast. He tongued her nipple, circled it slow just to watch her shudder, then bit down hard enough to make her moan. She raked her nails down his back, and he shivered, not from cold but from the simple, unfiltered need of it.
She reached between them with hands that shook. He’d expected her to fumble, but she was focused, relentless, tracking the button of his pants with fingers numb from the cold. The zipper rasped down, and her hand slid inside, hot and direct, skin on skin. He stuttered out her name, biting it off before it turned into a plea.
Her palm found him—solid, straining, already wet at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and squeezed, slow at first and then with growing confidence, as if she wanted to see how fast she could destroy him. He wanted to make this last, wanted to anchor this memory for all the nights he’d have to live without her, but her hand moved with the same wild rhythm asher heartbeat, and he barely managed to brace himself against the wall to keep from buckling.
He slid both hands to her waist, lifted her until her ass rested on the narrow ledge of the shower bench. His shoulder protested the movement, a sharp reminder of their fall, but he ignored it. The pain was distant, unimportant compared to the sight of Rue before him. She was all long muscle and sharp edges, thighs flexing around his hips, holding him in place. Her panties were soaked through, not just from the shower, and he wanted to taste her, to bury his face between her legs and unravel her inch by inch. But she was already pulling him closer, knees tight around his sides, her hand still working him. He groaned as her grip tightened, every nerve ending in his body lighting up, his whole focus narrowed to the place where her hand worked him, her legs squeezing around his hips, her breath hot and uneven against his neck. It was messy and frantic, the kind of sex you had at the end of the world—nothing pretty, nothing held back. He wanted to fuck her, wanted to lose himself in her until reality went away, until it was just the two of them and the steam and the heat.
He reached down, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties, and tore them off in one rough motion, baring her completely. The sight nearly knocked him over—Rue, skin flushed and raw, legs spread for him, dripping wet and not from the shower. She didn’t try to hide, didn’t blush or cover herself; she just leaned back, bracing on her palms, challenging him to do something about it.
“Instead of standing there with your tongue hanging out, why don’t you come over here and fuck me with it?”
He would have laughed if he hadn’t been so wrecked by her, but the words made him harder than he’d ever thought physically possible. He dropped to his knees, hands catching her thighs and spreading them wide, just to admire the view for aheartbeat. She was soaking, slick and swollen, her clit already flushed and begging for his mouth. He wanted to drag it out, to tease her until she screamed, but he wasn’t built for denial, not when it came to Rue.
He buried his face between her legs, tongue lashing at her clit with filthy intent. She came up off the bench, both hands in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she ground against his mouth. He could barely breathe, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was more of her, her taste, her scent, the way she said his name like it was both a threat and a promise.
“Don’t stop,” she panted, breath hitching as he sucked her clit between his teeth. “Oh, yes. Right there—fuck me hard with that tongue, Wilde.”
Her voice slashed through him, pure challenge, and he licked her deep and hard, flattening his tongue to the swollen bud and lapping at her, intent on ruining her composure as completely as she’d just ruined his. He used his thumbs to open her wider, the taste of her—salty, alive, defiant—turning every hot, fucked-up thought in his head into a single, animal need. He sucked her clit between his lips and circled it with his tongue, then slid two fingers into the wet, tight heat of her, curling them to find the spot that made her hips jerk off the bench.
She let out a sound halfway between a moan and a snarl, and he smiled against her pussy. She was close, rocking against his hand and mouth, her thighs clamped tight around his ears. She yanked his hair so hard he saw white at the edges of his vision, but he liked the pain.
He worked his fingers faster, tongue flicking over her until she snapped, coming with a strangled shout that echoed through the bathroom.
Her body went taut, thighs locked around his head, then shuddered so hard he almost worried she’d crack the tile. A gush of wet heat bathed his fingers, and the guttural sound she made—half sob, half growl—sent a triumphant pulse through him so hard it hurt. She stayed clenched, her hand in his hair, hips jerking with every aftershock as he kept pumping her with his fingers, slow now, drawing out every last tremor.
He could have lived down there forever, mouth buried in her, drinking in the salt and musk of her skin, the tiny, shocked whimpers she made when he licked her through the come-down. But Rue wasn’t having any of that. She shoved his head back, hard enough to snap his eyes up to hers. Her pupils were blown, her chest heaving. She looked, for a moment, like she might cry again, but what came out was a broken, desperate laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, because he had no other words for what she did to him.
She just grinned, feral and bright, and shoved herself upright on the bench. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in hard, grinding against his cock, which still strained obscenely from his half-unzipped pants. He was desperate to be inside her, but he wanted her to ask for it.
No, to beg for it.
He could feel the need boiling off her skin, the way her hands trembled as she pushed his pants down, the way her eyes didn’t leave his for even a second, as if she was afraid if she blinked he’d be gone.
