Page 6 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter six

The rain hadn’t started yet, but the sky was already warning them. Clouds loomed over the jagged coastline, swollen and ugly, the color of bad bruises. The air was so thick with waiting that it felt like the world had stopped breathing.

Rose drove the narrow, winding road with both hands clenched on the wheel, her knuckles pale under the dashboard light.

The truck shuddered around tight corners where pines leaned over the pavement like sentinels, their wet needles brushing the roof in rasping whispers.

Gravel popped and hissed under her tires in the growing wind.

She knew every curve of this road by now.

And she hated that she did.

She’d told herself all day that she wasn’t going back. Had stood in front of her bathroom mirror, hair scraped into a tight braid, and said it aloud in a voice that sounded too calm to be real.

You’re not going back. Not tonight. Not ever.

But here she was.

Her foot pressed harder on the accelerator the closer she got.

Damn him.

Damn him for the way he looked at her. For the way his voice sounded when it cracked around her name. For the way he’d said you wouldn’t stop circling my mind and made it feel like a confession instead of a curse.

By the time she reached the edge of the cliffs, the first cold pinpricks of rain were spitting onto the windshield, blurring the lights from the rental’s windows into pale smears. The wind howled off the ocean in long, keening moans, rattling the old wooden porch.

She didn’t knock.

The storm broke the second she slammed the truck door. Rain sheeted over her in a single, brutal curtain, soaking her instantly, flattening her braid to her spine. She charged for the door, boots slipping on the wet planks, her breath harsh in her chest.

When she burst inside, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind her with a gunshot crack.

The room was dim, lit only by a single low lamp on the counter. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the smell of damp wood and old coffee clung to everything. Water dripped from her clothes onto the floor in steady patters that were almost indecently loud in the hush.

She was drenched.

Hair plastered to her forehead. Shirt clinging to every contour, cold and slick. Jeans soaked through, darkening to near-black where they molded to her legs. She was shivering before she even realized it, but it had nothing to do with the rain.

Victor was in the kitchen.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

A towel slung over one broad shoulder, damp where he'd used it to scrub sweat off his neck. The muscles of his chest and stomach flexed as he turned, slow, deliberate, the old scars across his ribs catching the lamplight like pale paint strokes.

Steam curled from the kettle on the stove, swirling in slow spirals in the chill air.

When he saw her, he froze.

Their eyes met and held.

The rain pounded on the roof, thunder rolling low and endless, shaking the windows in their frames.

“You came,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

His voice was low, hoarse, like he’d smoked three packs on the drive there. Like he’d been saying her name all night under his breath.

Rose sucked in a breath that burned her throat.

Her heart was racing, her pulse stuttering in her ears so loudly she could barely hear the rain.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” she managed.

Her voice cracked at the end.

He watched her carefully, eyes flicking over every inch of her ruined composure—her soaked clothes, the water dripping off her lashes, the flush high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.

He took a step forward.

No limp.

No crutch.

Just his body—bare, battered, healed enough to stand tall.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered, voice shaking.

He ignored it.

He kept coming.

His eyes were black in the shadows, the pupils blown wide, eating up what little light there was.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you,” he said softly.

The words were a promise broken in real time.

He stopped only a breath away, close enough that the heat radiating off his bare skin reached her, steam rising between them where rain evaporated off her shirt.

“But then I drew you,” he said.

He lifted a hand.

Slow. Careful.

Callused fingers brushed her jaw, the pads scraping lightly against her wet skin. She shivered so hard she heard her own teeth click.

“And after that…”

He paused, eyes locked on hers.

“…I knew I was already gone.”

Rose couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

His thumb dragged across her cheek, wiping water that just returned instantly.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t permission.

It was him taking .

Her lips parted under the force of it, a broken sound escaping into his mouth that made his arm clamp around her waist, pulling her in so hard her breath whooshed out.

Their bodies met with a wet slap, clothes sticking and peeling away in awkward, desperate tugs.

She gasped when his other hand slid into her hair, pulling her head back to bare her throat.

Victor growled against her skin, low and vibrating, his teeth grazing the tendon under her jaw.

She shoved at his chest once—pointless. He didn’t move. She didn’t really want him to.

He kissed her again, sloppier now, more frantic.

Their teeth clicked.

She bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, tasted the copper tang on her tongue. He shuddered and kissed her harder.

Her fingers fumbled at the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down over the hard planes of his hips. He hissed as cold air hit him, then groaned when her hand wrapped around him, fingers slick from the rain.

“Fuck, Rose,” he panted, forehead pressed to hers.

She didn’t answer with words.

She guided him between her legs, the angle messy, rushed, perfect.

He lifted her.

Just picked her up like she weighed nothing.

She felt the strain in his arms, the tremor in his still-healing thigh, but he didn’t stop. He carried her to the island and sat her down hard enough to make the dishes rattle in the cabinets.

He was breathing like he’d run miles.

She wasn’t any better.

When he pressed in, she felt every inch.

Slow.

Relentless.

Her head fell back, mouth open in a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.

The rain slammed the roof.

The wind howled.

Inside, there was only heat.

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping, fingers digging into her ass to drag her closer with each thrust. The counter rocked under them, old wood protesting with sharp creaks.

She wrapped her legs around his waist so tight her knees dug into his ribs.

He kissed her the entire time—sloppy, wet, claiming every moan and curse.

“Say it,” he gasped.

“Victor—”

“Say you want this.”

She choked on her own breath, tears burning her eyes from the force of it all.

“I want it,” she snarled back. “I want you.”

That undid him.

He buried his face in her neck and came with a sound that was almost a sob.

She clenched around him, shuddering through her own release, nails leaving red trails down his back.

When the last aftershocks shivered out of them, he didn’t move.

He stayed pressed against her, cock still buried deep, arms locked so tight around her she could barely breathe.

His breath was hot on her neck, uneven, like he was fighting tears.

Rose didn’t say anything.

She just held him back.

Outside, the storm screamed against the glass.

Inside, they were silent.

Unmoving.

Breathing each other in.

For tonight, that was enough.

Maybe for longer than either of them was ready to admit.