Page 97 of Hide From Me

Her breath catches—subtle, but audible. Her chest rises in slow, deeper pulls like she’s trying to breathe around something bigger than air and her thighs shift slightly beneath my touch, like her body’s responding before her mind has caught up.

“And maybe…” I continue, locking eyes with her, not flinching, not blinking, “Maybe it helps me too. Because when you’re on top of me—when you’re choosing me—I don’t feel like my DNA is some fucking death sentence. I feel like I’m more. Like maybe I can actually do something right and not lose a piece of myself with it.”

Raylen swears under her breath as she sits up, legs curling beneath her like a spring coiling tight, her eyes dark and burning straight through every layer I’ve spent years hiding behind. There’s no hesitation in the way she moves now—only choice.

“Take your shirt off.”

I yank it over my head without breaking eye contact, my body humming under the weight of her gaze. I don’t care how exposed I feel—I want her to see all of me. Every scar. Every muscle drawn tight with restraint. Every inch of my skin she owns already.

She leans in, her palms pressing flat against my chest, and pushes. I let her guide me back until I’m lying at the foot of the bed, elbows catching behind me as I prop myself up, muscles flexing, spine tense with anticipation.

She straddles my thighs, still fully clothed, and I swear to God, she’s never looked more dangerous. Her eyes are deliberate as they trace over me. Her movements are calculated as she shifts to get comfortable. She’s not just taking control—she’sreclaimingit.

Her fingers drift down the center of my chest, drawing heat in their wake, until they find the waistband of my pants. The moment her knuckles brush over my lower stomach, and my body goes still as stone.

“You won’t move unless I tell you to?” she whispers.

“No, ma’am.” I grin.

She hums, the sound low and pleased, like she’s tasting power and liking how it settles on her tongue. Then she leans in, lips grazing just beneath my jaw—a kiss, a claim.

“Good.”

Her hands are slow but unshaking as she undoes my button, then drags the zipper down with a careful, deliberate flick. The brush of her fingers over mylength, even through my boxers, makes my jaw lock tight. I don’t thrust. I don’t beg. I fuckingwait.

And waiting has never felt more brutal.

She pushes the fabric down and lets my cock spring free, already painfully hard, already leaking from the pressure I’ve been holding back since she danced in front of someone else like it didn’t fucking gut me.

“Jesus,” she mutters, wrapping one hand around the base like she’s testing the weight of something dangerous. She pumps once. Slow. Lazy.Deliberate.

“You really weren’t kidding.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood and my fists clench at my sides until my knuckles turn white against the sheets.

“You’re gonna keep your hands to yourself?” she taunts.

“Unless you beg me to use them.” I tease.

Her lips curve into something wicked and divine, and then she backs herself between my legs, hair falling around her face like a curtain of silk. I feel her breath first—warm, teasing—before her tongue flicks out and drags from the base to the crown in one long, slow lick.

I hiss, my body jerking on instinct. But I don’t move. Not really. Not where it counts.

“Good boy,” she whispers.

Fuck me—I nearly come undone from just those two words.

My lips part but I'm instantly cut off from any coherent thought I could have formed as her mouth wraps around me.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

She sinks down slowly until I hit the back of her throat, and I swear I see God.

"Fuck, Ray…" My voice cracks like dry wood, hips straining for release, but I force myself to stay rooted.

She pulls off slowly, saliva catching at the corners of her mouth, chin wet, eyes locked on mine.

“You like this?” she asks, voice rough, throat tight. “Letting me do whatever I want?”