He orgasmed with a primitive snarl of feral ecstasy, his release splintering him into pieces.
“Shit, shit, shit!” His voice echoed with ferocity and vulnerability at coming completely undone. Pulling out, he grabbed the base of his cock and fisted himself as ribbons of white liquid shot through the air and splattered against my pubic hair and lower belly.
His stomach rippled as spurt after spurt drained him, marking me with musky threads of semen.
Breathing hard, he looked down at the mess he’d made—the evidence of our betrayal to hatred, family, and debts.
We couldn’t deny what’d just happened.
It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just lust.
It was something more.
I expected him to leave. To hate me.
But he folded over me, planting his slippery cock against my belly, smearing the now translucent mess until we stuck uncomfortably together.
My core cramped and trembled from such abuse, but I’d never felt so languid or tranquil.
Slowly, hesitantly, I brushed my lips across his, comforting him.
He didn’t say a word, nor did he kiss me back. His head fell forward, nuzzling his damp face into the curve of my neck.
I froze as his strong arms wrapped around me, crushing me against him.
Tears raced into being as my heart twisted and pulverised. I couldn’t handle him holding me like that—especially after what’d happened. I needed him to be cool and aloof if I had any chance at keeping my soul in one piece.
Liar.
It was already shredded, like shards in a breeze.
Jethro’s heart hammered against mine, beating hard, slowing its drumming the longer he held me.
We stayed like that for a long time. Too long. Both of us acknowledging wordlessly what we would never be able to do with conversation.
We were stripped. Naked. Exposed.
Woefully defenceless against each other.
With every second that passed, I tried to repair the damage he’d done. I felt him trying to do the same, gathering the pieces of his façade, gluing them unsuccessfully back into place.
Moment by moment, our connection drifted, slipping us further and further away.
My skin turned to goosebumps, exchanging sweaty lust for aftermath regret.
Finally, Jethro pulled away, climbing off me, tainting any illusion of togetherness. Not making eye contact, he whispered, “What just happened can never happen again. If it does, they’ll see the truth, and I won’t have any power to keep you.”
His powerful neck convulsed as he swallowed. “We’re fucked, Nila Weaver. Well and truly fucked.”
GODDAMMIT.
I needed to get out of there.
I needed to fix myself, find my ice.
I need to destroy the camera footage.
No one must know. No one.
Not looking at Nila, I grabbed my jeans off the floor and jerked them on. I couldn’t get a grip on my breathing. Everything inside me had switched upside down, and just the thought of walking away from her, after something so life changing, brought me to my fucking knees.
But I had no choice.
My mind replayed sinking inside her—hearing her moans, feeling her clench around me as she shattered.
Fuck.
Go.
Before it’s too late.
Before she sees.
Before he sees.
Before everyone sees the goddamn truth.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I glanced at her once out of the corner of my eye. She sat dishevelled and used. Her dress bunched around her waist, her broken knickers discarded on the floor, and her lips swollen and red.
I refused to look between her legs and see the sticky evidence of the best orgasm of my life. I thought blowing down her throat was amazing, but it’d been nothing compared to thrusting inside her.
I’d held back at the start, knowing I would be too big for her.
But like everything about Nila, she’d surprised me. She’d been able to take my entire length, and the moment I’d felt her body give and welcome, that was it for me.
I’d fucking lost it.
“Jethro—”
I held up my hand, cursing the tremble in my muscles. “Don’t. Stay here for the rest of the day. Do. Not. Tell. Anyone. You hear me?” My eyes narrowed, and I hoped I looked vicious and crazed, rather than unguarded and scared shitless about the consequences of what we’d done.
I knew what they’d do to her if they found out.
She didn’t.
It was best to keep it that way.
When Nila didn’t respond, I growled, “Promise me. This is our fucking secret. Don’t tell anyone. Got it?”
Wrapping her arms around her knees, she looked five years younger than she actually was. Her legs were coltish and long, her grace almost balletic. She was the perfect willowy female, but with soft curves and fragility came danger.
Danger in the form of being so fucking breakable.
“I won’t tell anyone, Jethro.”
“Good.” Stomping to the door, my mind was already on the things I’d have to take care of in order to hide this catastrophe.
Twisting the key, Nila’s voice stopped me. “When—when will I see you again? Are you disappearing?” The sheets rustled as she shifted on the bed.
I refused to turn and look at her. I couldn’t. I didn’t trust myself not to grab her and sink inside her wet, tempting heat again.
“Stop asking questions, Ms. Weaver.”
She sighed angrily. “So, we’re back to Ms. Weaver again? Stop it. Just stop it. Don’t run from me, and call me Nila, for God’s sake.”
Looking over my shoulder, I tried to ignore her flushed skin, her sated sigh, but most of all, I pretended I didn’t see the connection blazing in her eyes. The understanding.
It pissed me off just as much as it made me crave a simpler existence.
“I meant what I said, Ms. Weaver. We’re well and truly fucked. So keep that pretty little mouth closed and forget what happened.”
Opening the door, I added low so she wouldn’t hear, “You’ve destroyed me, Nila. And now it’s my job to make sure they don’t destroy you, too.”
THE MOMENT JETHRO left, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again for a while.
Sure enough, a week passed where my life fell into a routine of sketching, reading, and hanging out with Kes and the Black Diamond brothers.
On the seventh day of missing Jethro—of having erotic dreams that made me wake on the echoes of orgasms and of living with a heart tied into so many knots it’d forgotten how to beat properly—I gave up trying to hide my confused sadness and spent the afternoon outside.