Page 4 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

The tattoo does its best to hide the obvious scar that saved her from being paralyzed—a thin line that runs from her shoulder blade to the base of her spine where the surgeons had to operate to prevent permanent damage.

The burns have healed nicely over the past year, now just blemish designs along her back that she's covered with other tattoos, turning her skin into a perfect canvas that I'm positive she's nowhere near finished with.

I take those final steps to close the distance between us, unable to resist the magnetic pull that's always existed between us.

My hands move of their own accord as I lean down to kiss the side of her neck, right over that spot that I know makes her knees weak.

The moan that escapes her goes straight to my dick, which is apparently ready for round two despite the thorough workout she just gave me.

She leans her head back against my shoulder, water cascading down both of us as our eyes lock in the reflection on the glass door. When she speaks, her voice is soft and challenging at the same time.

"I didn't let you in, Sir."

The title hits me like a freight train, bringing back a flood of memories that I've been trying to suppress. The way she used to say it when we were together before —breathless and needy and so fucking sweet. How she looked at me like I hung the moon and could do no wrong.

And then the memory that destroys me every time: waking up in that hospital room to find her staring at me with absolutely no recognition in those beautiful eyes. The first words out of her mouth when she saw me weren't "I love you" or "I'm glad you're okay" or even my name.

They were: "Who the fuck are you?"

I ignore the heaviness of that memory by kissing her instead, pouring all my desperation and regret and love into the contact. The moan that echoes through the shower stall vibrates through my chest, settling into those hollow spaces that only she can fill.

I push the past away forcefully, not caring about the pain or the guilt or the way it threatens to drag me under.

I don't want to recall the past that ruined us.

I just want to focus on the present, even if it's built on lies and half-truths and the kind of hope that's probably going to destroy me.

Even if she doesn't remember loving me, she's here now.

She's choosing to be here, choosing to let me touch and taste her; to pretend that we can find our way back to what we used to be.

Maybe that has to be enough…for now.

Pretending is all I'm going to get, and I need to learn to be grateful for the scraps instead of constantly reaching for something that might not exist anymore.

But as her body melts against mine under the spray of hot water, as she turns in my arms and looks at me with those eyes that used to see straight into my soul, I can't help but hope that somewhere deep down, some part of her remembers what we used to mean to each other.

That speck of her still loves me, even if she doesn't know it yet.

I slip my hand between her legs without warning, groaning into the nape of her neck as my fingers find her still-swollen pussy, slick and ready despite the fact that I just fucked her senseless twenty minutes ago. The sound that tears from my throat is pure masculine satisfaction.

The tension between us was a living thing, an electrical buzz that had only intensified after our earlier collision in the bedroom, that primal hunger refusing to abate even after I’d emptied myself into her and watched her shatter under my hands.

I knew the second I caught her glancing at me from beneath the steam and the way her thighs shifted subtly apart, that she wanted more— needed more .

I slipped my hand between her legs without warning, my palm cupping the entire heat of her cunt as if it belonged to me, and I pressed two fingers straight into her, bumping her clit with my knuckles.

She jerked, sharp and sweet, a gasp escaping behind tightly clenched lips, and I groan into the nape of her neck, the sound torn up from deep in my chest, all masculine and full of violent, single-minded satisfaction.

She’s hot and swollen, hypersensitive and wet for me, as if we haven’t done the deed already in my bed.

The realization— that she’d ache for me this fiercely, that her body would open for me, again and again, no matter how many times I took her —nearly undid me.

Her breath was rapid, her pulse a hummingbird against my lips where I kissed the shell of her ear, trailing down until I could taste the salt of her sweat on her jaw, her shoulder, her collarbone.

I worked my fingers slowly, deliberately, drawing tight, lazy circles at the apex of her sex just to watch her squirm.

My other hand found her hip and anchored her to me, holding her in place even as she arched back into my chest, her ass grinding up against my cock.

I could feel myself getting hard again, faster than I thought possible, the inevitability of it almost laughable, except nothing about this was funny: it was desperate, obsessive, a sickness I never wanted cured.

She whimpers and twists, the tension in her thighs building as her body chased that sensation, and I parted my middle and ring fingers, pressing them into her, then out, then in again in a slow, soaking rhythm, making her ride the edge of pleasure and pain.

God, the way she responded— every flex and quiver, the way she clung to my wrist, the way her breath turned ragged and then broke into a guttural moan with each pass —I could have written entire sonatas to the sound she made.

I loved her most in these moments, when the rest of the world fell away and it was just us—no expectations, no pretense, just two ruined creatures trying to piece themselves together with spit and sweat and friction.

I was never going to get enough of her. Even when I was buried inside her, I wanted more skin, more sound, more of her tangled in my arms and gasping for breath.

"Fuck, I love listening to you moan when my fingers are taunting your slick-soaked pussy," I breathe against her skin, feeling her shiver as the words sink in. "You're so goddamn responsive for me, sugar."

She moans as she turns her head, seeking my lips with desperate hunger, and I gladly obey the silent request.

Our mouths crash together under the spray of hot water, steam swirling around us like we're in our own private world where nothing exists except this moment, this need, this impossible connection that refuses to die no matter how much damage we've done to each other.

I can't deny how fucking smitten I am for this woman.

For this Omega who drives me mad every single time she breathes in my direction. She's chaos and beauty and everything I never knew I needed wrapped up in a package that's designed to destroy me.

And the worst part? I'd let her do it gladly.

She's the only reason I'm still here, still attempting to thrive in this maddening world instead of letting it swallow me whole.

She doesn't know it— can't know it —but she's my reason for everything.

The therapy sessions where I sit in uncomfortable chairs and talk about my feelings like some kind of emotional invalid.

The motivation to drink less, to stop reaching for the bottle every time the guilt threatens to drown me.

The reason I've mostly quit the vaping shit, though I still smoke cigarettes when the stress of living this lie becomes too much to bear.

Everything I do, every small improvement I make, it's all for her.

All in the hope that someday I might be worthy of the love she used to give me so freely.

I slide two fingers into her welcoming heat, working her up with the kind of deliberate precision that comes from knowing someone's body better than your own. She's tight and hot and perfect around my fingers, her walls fluttering as I find that spot that makes her knees buckle.

"Please," she whimpers, her hips rolling against my hand as she seeks more friction. "Faster."

"I know the way you like it," I murmur against her ear, my voice rough with arousal and something deeper.

"How you love that build-up, the way it makes you crazy when I take my time.

" I curl my fingers inside her, stroking that perfect spot until she gasps.

"And I love feeling how wet you get just for me. Only for me."

The possessiveness in my voice should probably concern me, but I'm beyond caring about red flags and healthy boundaries.

This is what we are—messy and complicated and probably toxic as hell.

But it's ours, and right now that's all that matters.

I work her up methodically, adding a third finger when she's ready for it, stretching her in that way that makes her breath catch and her nails dig into my shoulders.

The sounds she makes echo off the shower walls—breathy moans and desperate whimpers that go straight to my cock, which is apparently ready for another round despite the thorough workout she gave me earlier.

She's quaking against me now, her whole body trembling as I bring her closer to the edge. Her pussy is gripping my fingers like a vice, and I can feel how close she is by the way her breathing becomes erratic and her moans pitch higher.

"That's it, sugar," I encourage, my thumb finding her clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come apart on my fingers."

She's seconds from cumming, her body wound tight as a bowstring, when I deliberately slow my movements.

She makes a sound of frustration that's half-sob, half-growl, and I can't help but smirk against her neck.

My cock is hard for her all over again, pressing insistently against her ass cheeks as I grind against her deliberately.

The friction is maddening, and from the way she groans impatiently, she feels it too.

"You just rode me to oblivion," I taunt, my voice thick with amusement and arousal, "yet here you are, needy all over again. That's being greedy, don't you think?"