Page 86

Holden moves like heat rising off asphalt. Controlled, unrelenting, inevitable.

He’s already got one hand at my waist, firm and steady, guiding me backwards toward the bed he just spent days chained to. Which, let’s be honest, is kind of poetic.

“You’re not in charge in here,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I whisper, already breathless. Already soaked.

“You like that?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly, like he’s cataloging the way my pupils dilate, the way my breath hitches.

“You have no idea,” I murmur.

The backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress and he stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to press a hand to my chest and hold me still.

“I’ve been good,” he says. “Didn’t fight. Didn’t break your toys. Let the others bond.”

“Saint Holden,” I breathe. “Do you want a cookie?”

“I want you,” he says, and then he pushes. Gently, but with purpose.

I fall back onto the bed, legs draped over the edge, hair splayed out like a proper sacrifice. And I should be nervous. I should be wondering what this is going to be like, how he’ll compare to the others, how this reserved, quiet, beautifully broken man is going to fuck me.

But the only thing I can think is: Finally.

He slides my, technically Evan’s, shirt up over my head and tosses it away. Then pauses and stares.

Not like the others. Not like Dean who grins, or Evan who catalogues, or Wade who worships.

Holden assesses.

He looks at me like I’m the battlefield and he’s already picked his points of entry.

“You’re thinking,” I whisper.

He kneels between my legs, hands firm on my thighs. “I always think.”

“Well stop. Just…”

He licks up the inside of my thigh and my brain blanks out like someone yanked the power cord.

Oh. Oh fuck.

“Say please,” he says against my skin.

“Please,” I gasp. “Please, please, fuck, please.”

And then his mouth is on me. Not tentative. Not teasing. Precise. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every breath. His hands are steady, keeping me still even when I start to shake. He doesn’t hold me down, he holds me open.

And it’s so good, it’s so good it actually hurts, because it’s not fast. It’s not wild. It’s measured. Every flick, every suck, every soft groan against my skin is done with the kind of discipline that should be illegal.

I come so hard I choke on it. Back arched, hips stuttering, hands tangled in the sheets because if I touch him, I’ll die.

But he doesn’t stop. He adjusts.

And that’s somehow worse. Or better. I can’t tell. I don’t care.

When I come again, I swear I black out for half a second.

By the time he stands, I’m limp. Wrung out. Soaked and smiling like a lunatic.