Page 19

TRAZ

I feel the weight of her body against mine, the way her breath hitches when my fingers trace the curve of her jaw.

The mattress creaks beneath us, a fragile symphony of rusted springs.

Her lips are tentative at first—a featherlight press that tastes of salt and unspoken years.

I let her set the rhythm, my hands trembling as they hover above her hips, afraid to shatter this fragile thing we’re rebuilding.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer until our chests collide.

The kiss deepens, slow and searching, her mouth opening beneath mine like a question.

I answer with a groan, my palm sliding up her spine to cradle the base of her skull.

She arches into me, a broken sound escaping her throat that I swallow whole.

The air thickens with heat, our movements growing urgent.

Her nails scrape my scalp as she fists a hand in my hair, dragging me down into the storm of her.

I taste desperation in the way her teeth catch my lip, in the way her hips roll against mine like she’s trying to erase every empty night we spent apart.

The world narrows to the slick slide of skin, the ragged symphony of our breathing, the way her pulse flutters beneath my thumb when I brush her throat.

She tears at my shirt, fabric ripping as we fumble with buttons.

I let her strip me bare, her palms mapping every scar and ridge like she’s memorizing a battlefield.

When her lips find the hollow of my collarbone, I shudder, my hands gripping the thin mattress to keep from crushing her.

She’s everywhere—her scent, her warmth, the soft whimpers muffled against my skin—until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.

The last thread of restraint snaps when she whispers my name, raw and pleading.

"Traz…"

My mouth crashes into hers again, hungry and unyielding, as if we could devour the years of silence between us. Her legs wrap around my waist, anchoring me to this moment, to her, as the world outside this room dissolves into nothing.

Her fingers fumble with my belt. I catch her wrists—too rough, maybe—but she jerks against my grip.

"You think I don't know how to do this?" Her laugh cracks midair, brittle as the bulb filament sputtering above us.

My thumbs swipe the saltwater streaks under her eyes before I mean to. Neither of us mention it.

The shirt peels away next, her nails catching on cotton seams. I watch her lips part when I tug the hem of her tunic upward—slow, giving her time to bolt. Her ribs press against my palms as the fabric clears her head. Scars lattice her stomach like henna. I don't ask. Not tonight.

She shivers when my mouth finds the hinge of her jaw. Works open my fly with practiced tugs that make my spine lock. For someone kept in lace and parlor smiles, she undoes a man like demolition work. The last of our clothes hit the floorboards as she hooks a leg over my hip.

I push her back.

Her gasp splinters when I slide down the bunk, calluses catching on her inner thighs. She smells like antiseptic soap — harsh, chemical—but underneath it, warm musk and panic. My tongue drags a slow line. Her heel slams into my shoulder blade. "Fuck. Tr?—"

"No talking." I bite the crease where hip meets groin. She whines through clenched teeth. Her hands find my hair, not gentle now.

Tastes shift—sharp sweat, salt tides, the metallic zing every time she bucks. Memorizing the cadence of her gasps feels tactical. Necessary. When she arches hard enough to lift us both off the mattress, I pin her hips and let her throttle the rhythm she needs.

Her thighs quake. Radio static fills my skull.

My tongue drags a slow circle, savoring the hitch in her breath.

She tastes like desperation and iron, her thighs trembling against my shoulders.

I map her with my mouth—every twitch, every stifled gasp a roadmap to unraveling her.

Her fingers claw at the sheets, knuckles white as she arches into me.

I don’t rush. Mercenaries learn patience.

Her breath fractures into a whine, sharp and high. I press deeper, relentless, until her hips buck. She tries to grind against me, but I pin her down with a hand on her stomach. Control is the currency here. She whimpers, a sound that’s half protest, half plea.

“Traz—”

I ignore it. My teeth graze the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she jerks. Her heel digs into my back, urging. I let her squirm, let the tension coil tighter. When her moans turn ragged, I finally relent.

Her climax hits like a detonation. She seizes, back bowing off the mattress, a choked scream tearing from her throat. I ride it out, relentless, until she’s gasping, her body shuddering beneath me.

She collapses, chest heaving. Sweat glistens on her collarbone. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, watching her come undone. Her eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide.

I don’t give her time to recover.

Climbing over her, I grip her hips and yank her against me. She’s still trembling, her breath hot against my neck as I push my cock inside. Her nails rake down my back, drawing blood. I bite back a groan.

Her pussy's tight, heat wrapping around me like a vise. Her legs lock around my waist, pulling my cock deeper. Every thrust is a battle—her gasps, the creak of the mattress, the raw scrape of skin on skin.

Her head thrashes against the pillow. “Faster?—”

I ignore her. Slow. Methodical. Let her feel every inch.

She curses, her voice breaking as she cries my name behind her hand.

"Traz," she whispers, hoarse and desperate. "Fuck, Traz, I missed this. I needed this."

"I know," I reply against her ear. "I know you did, Kelli."

A single tear rolls down her cheek. I lean down and lick it away, refusing to ever let her feel such sorrow ever again.

"Fuck, Traz…" she whines in response.

Her body clenches, dragging me closer to the edge. I grit my teeth, focus on the way her breath hitches each time I drive into her pussy.

The room reeks of sweat and sex. Her moans rise, sharp and desperate. I can feel her tightening again, her body arching.

Her heartbeat thunders through my palm pressed between her shoulder blades. We’re fused at the sternum, sweat-slick and shaking, her forehead jammed against my throat. I count the vertebrae under my fingers—C3 to T1—a mercenary’s habit of cataloging vulnerabilities. Her exhale scalds my collarbone.

The mattress groans as she rolls us sideways. Her leg hooks over my hip, possessive. Moonlight bleeds through cracked window slats, glinting in her eyes.

I catch her wrist, bring her knuckles to my mouth.

Her legs lock around my waist, pulling me deeper with each thrust.

"Traz—" Her voice cracks, a fractured plea.

I silence her with a growl, my hand tangling in her hair.

Her body tightens like a coiled spring, every muscle trembling.

I feel the exact moment her control shatters—her back arches, a choked cry tearing from her throat.

The convulsions ripple through her, dragging me over the edge with brutal efficiency.

My vision whites out. Teeth gritted, I bury my face in the crook of her neck as the world dissolves into static. Her pulse hammers against my lips, rapid as a gunshot. We collapse in a tangle of limbs, the mattress groaning in protest.

The silence stretches, broken only by the creak of cooling metal from the radiator. She shifts, her forehead pressing against my sternum. I don't move when her arm snakes across my chest.

Her hand stills on my ribcage. The faint click of her swallow echoes louder than the street noise outside. I count the seconds until her breathing evens out, muscles slackening against me. Her knee digs into my hipbone.

The streetlight casts her face in amber. For a heartbeat, I consider tracing the contours of her jawline.

Instead, I close my eyes. Let the weight of her arm anchor me to the mattress. The distant wail of a patrol siren fades into the hum of the city. Her breath warms my shoulder.

Sleep comes like a sniper's bullet—swift, unannounced.