Page 15 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 15

Ariadne

My hands find Sunny’s waist, the curve of her back, the weight of her long hair. She makes a small sound against my mouth that invokes something primal inside me. I back her against the wall, my body pressing against hers, seeking more contact, more heat.

“Are you sure about this?” I manage to ask, pulling back just enough to see her face.

Her eyes are dark with desire, her smile fierce and hungry. “Are you ?”

I’m not sure of anything anymore, except that I want this—want her—in a way that defies all my training, all my defenses, all my carefully constructed rules.

“Yes,” I tell her, and it feels like stepping off a cliff.

She rises to meet me, matching my intensity with her own. Sunny kisses like she does everything else—with absolute commitment, holding nothing back. Her hands slide under my shirt, her touch burning against my skin, leaving trails of fire wherever her fingers explore.

“I’ve thought about this,” she confesses against my neck, her teeth grazing sensitive skin. “So many times.”

“Me too,” I admit, surprising myself with the truth.

I capture her mouth again, hungry for her taste. I’ve kissed countless marks before, played countless roles, but I’ve never felt this desperate need, this honest desire. It scares me how much I want her, how quickly she’s dismantling everything I thought I knew about myself.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure down my spine. I respond by sliding my thigh between her legs, pressing upward. She gasps into my mouth, her hips rocking against me instinctively.

I’ve killed men with my bare hands. I’ve survived torture that would break most people. I’ve faced down Grandmother’s wrath without flinching. But nothing—nothing—has ever made me feel as powerful as the sound Sunny makes when I slide my hand under her shirt, fingers tracing the warm skin of her stomach.

I give myself over to the sensation, letting instinct guide me instead of calculation. She lets me pull her top up and off. She’s braless underneath, her full breasts swaying as she moves until I take them into my hands. They’re soft. Perfect. Warm.

Just like her.

“I’ve wanted you,” she breathes against my neck as her lips trail down, “since our very first day in training when you knocked me on my ass.”

I laugh, the sound strange and unfamiliar. “That’s twisted, Santiago.”

“Maybe. But I bet you wanted it too.”

I don’t answer with words. Instead, I lift my arms, letting her pull the shirt over my head. The cool air hits my skin, but I’m burning up inside, my body responding to her touch in ways I can’t control. Her eyes travel over me and I take her face in my hands to kiss her again, taste her sweet mouth. She pushes me back a little, murmuring, “Bed,” and I follow her lead, unwilling to break contact for more than a second.

We tumble onto her narrow dorm bed and the mattress creaks in protest beneath us, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except the feel of her body against mine, the heat of her skin, the taste of her tongue in my mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she whispers, her eyes traveling over my exposed skin. Her fingertips trace the scars that map my history—the knife wounds, bullet scars, the burn marks that Grandmother left on me as punishment for failure.

I’ve always hated these marks, these permanent reminders of weakness. But Sunny touches them with something like reverence.

And I let her.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” I tell her after a moment, my voice rougher than I intended. “I won’t break.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Maybe I want to be gentle. Maybe you deserve that.”

No one’s ever said that to me before. No one’s ever looked at my scars and seen anything but weakness or a weapon honed through pain. Something shifts inside me, a crack in foundations I thought were solid.

“I don’t—” I start, but she silences me with another kiss, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against mine.

“Let me,” she whispers against my lips. “Just let me.”

And I do. I surrender to her touch as her mouth trails down my neck, across my collarbone, to my breast. When her lips close around my nipple, I arch against her, a sound escaping me that I’ve never made before. I’ve always been in control during sex, even when I played at submission for a mark. But with Sunny, I’m losing that control, surrendering to sensation in a way that should terrify me.

Instead, it feels like liberation.

Her mouth continues its journey downward, trailing kisses across my stomach. My muscles tense and release under her touch, my body responding without my permission. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of my pants, looking up at me with a question in her eyes.

“Yes,” I breathe, lifting my hips to help her.

She slides them down, taking my underwear with them, leaving me naked and desperate. Sunny’s dark eyes hold mine as she settles between my legs, her warm breath ghosting over my most sensitive skin. I’ve never felt this exposed, this vulnerable. My breath catches in my throat as her hands slide under my thighs, lifting slightly.

“I’ve thought about this,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “What you’d taste like. What sounds you’d make.”

Another time, I might have had a sharp retort ready. Now, I can only watch, transfixed, as she lowers her head. At the first touch of her tongue, I jerk, a shock of pleasure coursing through me. She makes a sound of approval, her hands tightening on my thighs as she licks again, more deliberately this time.

I give in completely, let my head fall back against the pillow as she explores every inch of me with her mouth. Her technique is confident, assured—she knows exactly what she’s doing, alternating between broad strokes and a focus on my clit that has me gasping, hands fisting in the sheets. My hips rock against her face, seeking more pressure, more friction. She responds by sliding a finger inside me, then another, curling them upward as her tongue continues its merciless assault.

I’ve never been loud during sex—another habit drilled into me by Grandmother, who considered any loss of control a weakness—but I can’t hold back the sounds that tear from my throat as Sunny drives me higher. She’s relentless, reading my body’s responses and adjusting accordingly, pushing me toward a precipice I’ve never truly fallen from before.

“Let go,” she murmurs against me, her words vibrating through my core. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in my life, I believe those words. I let go, surrendering completely as pleasure crashes over me in waves. I cry out, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around her head. She stays with me through it all, gentling her touch but not stopping completely, drawing out my orgasm until I’m shaking, oversensitive, desperate.

“Sunny,” I gasp, tugging at her shoulders. “Come here.”

She crawls up my body, her expression triumphant and hungry. Her lips are slick with my own pleasure, eyes dark with desire. I pull her down into a kiss, tasting myself on her tongue, and something primal surges through me. I flip our positions, pinning her beneath me, savoring her look of surprise and delight.

“My turn,” I growl against her mouth.

I’m done being gentle. Done being careful. I want to consume her, to mark her, to make her feel what she’s just done to me. I strip her with efficient movements, revealing smooth brown skin that I immediately taste with my tongue, my teeth. She arches beneath me, responsive and unafraid, meeting my intensity with her own.

“Fuck,” she gasps as I bite down on the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. My mark. “Ariadne?—”

I silence her with another kiss, fierce and possessive. My hand slides between her legs, finding her wet and ready. She moans into my mouth as I touch her, exploring the slick heat of her. I memorize her reactions—what makes her gasp, what makes her writhe. But it’s not enough. I want more. I want to taste her, just like she tasted me.

I slide down her body, trailing open-mouthed kisses across her skin. Her breathing quickens as I move lower, settling between her thighs. For a moment, I just look at her—the slick, swollen flesh, the evidence of how much she wants this. Wants me.

“Please,” she whispers, hands fisting in the sheets.

I lower my mouth to her, my first taste making us both moan. She’s sweet and tangy, perfect. I explore her with long, deliberate strokes of my tongue, savoring every gasp, every twitch of her hips. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider, exposing more of her to my hungry mouth. When I focus on her clit, her hips buck wildly, a desperate sound escaping her throat. I slide two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench around them as I establish a steady rhythm. The angle is perfect—I can curl my fingers to hit that spot inside her while my tongue continues its merciless assault on her clit.

“Fuck, yes,” she gasps, hands flying to my head, holding me against her. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

I have no intention of stopping. I’m addicted to her taste, to the sounds she makes, to the way her body responds to my touch. I increase the pace of my fingers, let my tongue lash relentlessly across her clit. Her thighs begin to tremble on either side of my head, her breathing becoming more ragged. The sound of it sends a fresh wave of desire through me. I don’t stop, don’t slow down, continuing the relentless rhythm until she breaks, a cry tearing from her lips as her orgasm overtakes her. Her back arches off the bed, grinding against my face, and I drink her down.

Afterward, we lie facing each other, her leg thrown over mine, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel…calm. Present in a way I rarely am.

“Was this a tactical error, too?” she asks, a slight smile on her lips.

I blink, surprised by the echo of my earlier thought. “How did you?—”

“You have a very specific look on your face when you think you’ve miscalculated,” she says. “I noticed it the first time we sparred.”

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”

“And you’re more human than you want to admit.” She traces a finger along my collarbone, down to a scar just above my breast. “How did you get this one?”

I tense slightly. My scars are my history written on my skin, a record of lessons learned, punishments survived, missions completed. They’re not something I share.

But something in Sunny’s expression—open, curious, without judgment—makes me answer.

“Training accident,” I say. “Grandmother liked to use real knives.”

Sunny’s fingers pause, then continue their gentle exploration. “And this one?” she asks, touching a small, round scar on my shoulder.

“Cigarette burn. I failed a language test.”

Her expression darkens. “She burned you over a test?”

“Punishment had to be memorable to be effective,” I say, repeating one of Grandmother’s favorite phrases. “Pain is clarity.”

“That’s fucked up,” Sunny says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

I shrug. “It was effective. I speak six languages fluently now.”

Sunny props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “Tell me something about your life before Grandmother. When you lived with Mrs. G.”

The question catches me off guard. “What? Why?”

“Because I want to know you,” she says simply. “The real you, not just what she made you into.”

I stare up at the ceiling, sifting through fragments of memory from before—hazy images, disconnected feelings, a life that sometimes seems like it belonged to someone else.

“I had a teddy bear,” I say finally. “His name was Mr. Fluffikins.” Sunny smiles. “Tell me more about your sister,” I say, wanting to shift the focus away from my past.

Sunny sighs, settling back against me. “Marisol was…the only bright thing in life. Always laughing, always singing. Even when things were bad at home, she could find something to be happy about.” She pauses, her voice catching. “She used to make up these elaborate stories about how we’d escape someday, live in a castle by the sea. And I…believed her.”

“You were young,” I point out. “And you were up against someone evil. Someone who should have protected you both, and didn’t.”

“I was old enough to know better,” she says. “I should have helped her plan, shaken off the fantasy—helped her save?—”

I recognize the spiral of self-blame, the endless loop of “should haves” that can consume you if you let them. Without thinking, I find myself reaching for her hand, lacing our fingers together.

“We’ll find her,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. “Or we’ll find out what happened to her. I promise.”

Sunny looks at me, her expression vulnerable in a way I haven’t seen before. And then she leans in to kiss me again. I lose myself in her—in the warmth of her mouth, the press of her body against mine, the way she sighs my name. Time becomes meaningless, the world outside this room ceasing to exist.

Until a sharp bang at the door shatters the moment.

“Santiago! War room, now!” Lyssa’s voice cuts into our private world as keenly as one of her knives. “And if you see Graves, tell her the fucking same.”

We freeze, staring at each other. Sunny’s eyes are wide with alarm.

“On my way!” she calls back, then lowers her voice to a whisper. “Shit, shit, shit.”

We scramble off the bed, gathering scattered clothes with frantic efficiency. Sunny pulls on her pants, almost falling over in her haste. “What exactly do we tell them? About why I lost control?”

I pause, considering. “Let me handle it,” I say finally. “I’ll stick to my story. You don’t need to say anything.”

“I can’t let you take the fall alone,” she argues, tying her shoes. “Not when it was my fault.”

“Yes, you can.” I move to her, grasping her shoulders firmly. “Listen to me, Sunny. Your mission is to find your sister. You can’t do that if they kick you out of the Syndicate. Let me handle this. I’m already a monster in their eyes. This won’t change anything for me.”

What I don’t say, what I barely admit to myself, is that I’m afraid—not for myself, but for her. Afraid of what might happen if she loses herself again like she did in that warehouse, if her bright light is dimmed by the same darkness that’s consumed me.

I’m afraid because, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I care about someone else’s fate more than my own.