Chapter 217: She Had Plans for Those Hands - Part 2

"I know what I was doing." Her voice drops, goes low and taunting, her eyes never leaving his. "You stopped because you got scared. Because you’re weak."

The word lands like a slap, heat flooding up his neck, and his jaw tightens. "I’m not..."

"You are." She says it so simply, so certainly, leaning down until her mouth hovers just above his, her breath ghosting against his lips. "You had me right where you wanted me and you panicked. You pulled back like I was made of glass." Her tongue drags slowly across her bottom lip, and his eyes catch the motion, helpless. "I’m not glass, Thorne."

His hands curl into fists at his sides, something hot and defensive clawing up through his chest, mixing with the arousal still throbbing low in his gut until he can’t tell where one feeling ends and the other begins.

"I was being careful," he grinds out, but even to his own ears it sounds thin, sounds like an excuse.

"Careful." She repeats the word like it tastes bad. "That’s not what I want from you right now." Her hand slides down his stomach again, lower, until her fingers wrap around the base of his cock, and he groans, hips twitching helplessly into her grip. "I want you to take what you want. I want you to stop asking permission with your eyes every two seconds."

"Dove..."

"Weak," she says again, quieter this time, almost gentle, and somehow that’s worse than if she’d shouted it. Her thumb drags over the head of his cock, smearing the wetness there, and his breath stutters out of him in a broken rush. "Is that what you are? Weak?"

He doesn’t answer with words. He can’t. There’s nothing in him that could form a sentence right now, not with her hand on him, not with her voice doing this to him, stripping something bare that he didn’t know was covered. Instead, his hand finds the back of her head again, and this time there’s no hesitation in it. He guides her down, and she goes willingly, eagerly, her mouth sinking over him again, and the question in her eyes a moment ago is gone, replaced by something hungry.

He doesn’t hold back this time.

His hips rock up to meet her, his grip tightening in her hair, and he sets the pace again, faster now, deeper, driven by something that isn’t quite anger and isn’t quite desperation but lives somewhere in the space between. Every sound she makes around him, every gag and swallow and moan, sends another wave of heat crashing through him, and he chases it, chases her, his breath coming in short ragged pulls.

"Fuck..." The word breaks out of him on a groan, his head tipping back against the mattress, his eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck, Dove, just like that..."

She hums around him, and the vibration nearly undoes him right there, his thighs trembling, his stomach muscles drawing tight and hard beneath skin still marked with her bites. He feels the pressure building low in his spine, a tightening coil that winds tighter with every pass of her tongue, every drag of her lips, every small desperate sound she makes that he feels more than hears.

"I’m close," he manages, voice cracking around the words, a warning he isn’t sure she even wants. "Dove, I’m..."

She doesn’t pull back. If anything, she takes him deeper, her hand working the base of him in time with her mouth, and that’s what breaks him. The feel of her not stopping, not retreating, taking everything he has to give.

His hips buck up hard, his whole body seizing, and the sound that comes out of him is something between a whimper and a sob, high and broken and utterly stripped of pride. "Dove..."

He comes with a shudder that rolls through every muscle he owns, his cock pulsing against her tongue, spilling into her mouth in hot waves, and his hips keep bucking up into her, chasing the feeling, chasing her, even as his vision goes white at the edges and his fingers tighten almost painfully in her hair.

She doesn’t pull away. She swallows around him, her throat working, taking everything he gives her, and the feel of it, the slick heat of her mouth, the pulse of her throat as she swallows, drags one last aftershock through him, his hips twitching weakly, his breath coming in shaking gasps.

"Oh fuck..." The words tumble out of him, wrecked, barely coherent. "Oh fuck, Dove..."

She finally lifts her head, slow, her lips swollen, a faint shine at the corner of her mouth that she wipes away with the back of her hand before sitting back on her heels. She looks at him, really looks, her eyes dragging over his chest heaving with every breath, the sheen of sweat gathering at his hairline, the bite marks and scratches scattered across his skin like a map of everything she’s claimed tonight.

She takes out her healing water and slowly drips it over his body. "cant have my man looking like i abuse him, can we?" She put their water within reach and moved the bag off the bed before sitting down again. Thorne watched her make those small adjustments, then held out his hand. Nothing in the room belonged to them for long, but she could still arrange this little part of it the way she wanted.

Dove sat beside Thorne with the blanket over her knees and listened to the ordinary noises outside. A chair scraped on the next porch, followed by somebody complaining about the mosquitoes. She tucked her feet beneath the blanket and moved closer to him. Edrik had said he would come back after the drivers finished eating. There was no need to hurry the last few minutes alone.

She looked around the cabin again. The furniture did not match. The curtain hung crookedly, and somebody had repaired the lamp with a strip of tape. She could imagine setting her books beside it anyway.

"Could you live somewhere like this?" she asked.

Thorne followed her gaze. "For a while."

"Not here specifically. I mean somewhere we could actually enjoy. A kitchen. A bed nobody else wants. A room where I can leave my shoes without having to pack them again."

He considered that instead of answering too quickly. She liked him for it, even while she waited.

"With you," he said. "But I still need to know about my father."

"I know."

He took her hand beneath the blanket. "When you say home, Dove, which place are you thinking of?"

For once, the answer did not come easily.

She put their water within reach and moved the bag off the bed before sitting down again. Thorne watched her make those small adjustments, then held out his hand. Nothing in the room belonged to them for long, but she could still arrange this little part of it the way she wanted.

Dove sat beside Thorne with the blanket over her knees and listened to the ordinary noises outside. A chair scraped on the next porch, followed by somebody complaining about the mosquitoes. She tucked her feet beneath the blanket and moved closer to him. Edrik had said he would come back after the drivers finished eating. There was no need to hurry the last few minutes alone.

She looked around the cabin again. The furniture did not match. The curtain hung crookedly, and somebody had repaired the lamp with a strip of tape. She could imagine setting her books beside it anyway.

"Could you live somewhere like this?" she asked.

Thorne followed her gaze. "For a while."

"Not here specifically. I mean somewhere we could actually enjoy. A kitchen. A bed nobody else wants. A room where I can leave my shoes without having to pack them again."

He considered that instead of answering too quickly. She liked him for it, even while she waited.

"With you," he said. "But I still need to know about my father."

"I know."

He took her hand beneath the blanket. "When you say home, Dove, which place are you thinking of?"

For once, the answer did not come easily.