Page 60 of Held-

The tension inside me builds to a breaking point, my thighs trembling as I slam down on him one last time. His hand tightens slightly around my throat, and that's all it takes to send me careening over the edge.

“Brayden!” I cry out as the orgasm rips through me, more powerful than the first. My body clamps down around him, each rush of feeling hitting harder than the last.

His grip on my throat loosens as he thrusts up into me, meeting my movements with his own desperate rhythm. I can feel him getting closer—his breathing ragged, muscles tensing beneath my hands.

“Fuck,” he growls.

I collapse against his chest, boneless and spent, but he's not finished. In one fluid motion, he flips us so I'm beneath him on the couch. He hooks one arm under my knee, opening me wider as he drives into me.

“I'm going to fill you up,” he promises. “Mark you from the inside out.”

“Yes,” I whimper, too sensitive for another orgasm but still craving the feeling of him losing control. “Please.”

His rhythm falters, becomes erratic. His fingers dig into my thigh as he buries himself deep inside me one last time, his whole body going rigid. The sound that tears from his throat is otherworldly. He collapses on top of me, his weight pressing me into the couch as we both struggle to catch our breath. His face is buried in my neck, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin as he plants lazy, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone. Ican feel him still pulsing inside me, aftershocks of his release making both our bodies twitch.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against my skin. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I laugh breathlessly, my fingers trailing up his sweat-slicked back. “If I was, what a way to go.”

He lifts his head, looking down at me with those storm-gray eyes. There's something in them I can't quite read—a softness that seems at odds with the man who just bent me over his kitchen counter.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

The tenderness of the gesture nearly undoes me. After everything—my father, the fight, the desperate sex—this simple touch threatens to break my fragile composure.

“I think so,” I whisper, not trusting my voice with anything louder. “Just...processing.”

He nods, understanding without needing me to explain. Carefully, he pulls out of me, both of us wincing at the sensitivity. Then he gathers me against his chest, shifting us so we're lying side by side on the narrow couch, my back pressed to his front.

His arms encircle me, one hand splayed protectively across my stomach, the other cradling my head. The silence stretches between us, comfortable yet fragile, like a bubble I'm afraid to burst.

But there's a question burning in my throat. One I can't swallow down anymore. Maybe it's the vulnerability of being naked in his arms, or the emotional whiplash of the past twenty-four hours, but I suddenly need to know where we stand.

“Is this just sex for you?” I ask quietly. I feel his body tense slightly behind me, and I rush to add, “Not that I mind if it is. I just...I should probably know what this is.”

His breathing changes and becomes more deliberate. For several heartbeats, he says nothing, and I fight the urge to fill the silence with nervous babble.

“If this was just sex, I wouldn't have let you bring your suitcase inside.”

My heart does a strange little flip in my chest. “What does that mean?”

He sighs, his breath warm against my neck. “It means I don't know what the fuck this is, but it's not just sex.” His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer. “I don't let women stay over, Cece. I definitely don't let them move in.”

I turn toward him, searching his face. A shielded look has taken hold there, a quiet caution that hints he’s deciding what pieces of himself to show me.

“I've never been good with words,” he admits, his thumb absently stroking my hip. “And I'm not gonna promise shit I can't deliver. But...” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “This feels different. You feel different.”

I hold my breath.

“I'm not looking to complicate your life more than it already is,” he continues. “But I am a selfish bastard who can’t bring himself to let you walk away either.”

I swallow hard, his words settling into my chest. Different. I feel different with him too.

“My father said things about you,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the edge of a tattoo on his chest. “About your past.”

His body tenses slightly beneath my touch, but he doesn't pull away. “I figured he would.”

“He mentioned an arrest. For assault.” I force myself to look up, meeting his gaze. “Said you put someone in the hospital.”