Chapter 19: Dark Mirrors
“I’m serious, Rebel.” Her voice was soft, devoid of its earlier teasing. She finished unfastening his jeans, the sound of the zipper parting loud in the silence. Her hand slid inside, warm and sure, and he hissed, his head falling back.
“About the camera?” he managed, his voice gravel.
“Yes,” She leaned in, her lips brushing his jaw. “I want to see you when I’m not here”
Her hand moved, a slow, deliberate stroke that made his knees buckle. “Put a camera right there,” she whispered, nodding toward the foot of the bed. “Facing you. So I can watch.”
He caught her wrist, stilling her hand. His breath was ragged. “Why would you want that?”
She held his gaze, her hazel eyes reflecting the city’s distant glow. “Because I want to watch you touch yourself thinking about me when I’m not here,” she said, her voice low and utterly candid. “I want to see the face you make.”
A sharp, incredulous laugh escaped him. He released her wrist, running both hands through his hair as he stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, Sammy.”
His mind flashed to the archived feeds on his encrypted drive—hours of grainy, green-tinted night vision footage. She was asking for a performance of a ritual he’d lived in secret. He looked back at her, at her bold, unflinching expression, and felt the ground tilt. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I’m asking for you,” she countered simply. “The real you. Not the one you show my brother.”
The truth of it cracked something open inside his chest. He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her head, his face inches from hers.
“The real me is fucked up,” he whispered, the words a raw confession against her lips. “That real enough for you?”
She reached up, her cool fingers tracing the tension in his jaw. “Show me.”
He captured her mouth in a fierce, claiming kiss. His hips pressed against hers, the denim of his open jeans rough against her inner thighs.
“You want to watch?” he growled, pulling back just enough to speak. “Then watch.”
He released her and took one deliberate step back, his eyes never leaving hers. His hand moved to himself with a stark, unapologetic purpose, a rough stroke through the open denim.
“Get on the fucking bed, Samantha.”
The command, low and razor-edged, hit her with a physical jolt. A fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly, leaving her utterly wet. She complied without resistance, shifting backward onto the cool black silk until she was centered against the pillows.
He followed, kneeling on the mattress with a predator’s grace. He used his knees to spread her legs apart, the pressure insistent and final. He never stopped touching himself, his rhythm slow and utterly focused on her watching him.
“Is this what you want to see?”
Her breath caught. Yes, it was. It was the most terrifyingly intimate thing she had ever witnessed. The raw concentration on his face, the possessive way his gaze pinned her as he moved, was more potent than any touch.
She would worship him from this angle forever.
“You’re beautiful like this,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “This is the only prayer I know, Sammy.”
His admission hung in the air between them, sacred and profane. He leaned forward, his other hand coming to rest high on her inner thigh, his thumb pressing into her softness through the lace of her shorts.
The dual sensation of his watchful eyes and that claiming touch made her arch off the bed. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, a plea and a command.
“I wasn’t planning on it.” His smile was a dark, beautiful promise.
His smile was a dark, beautiful promise. It faltered as she moaned his name, the sound low and throaty, dissolving into the charged air between them.
“Rebel.”
Her hands moved to the button of her own shorts, her eyes locked on his. The pop of the fastener was obscenely loud. She pushed the fabric over her hips in one swift, determined motion, shimmying out of them until they were discarded on the floor.
She lay back completely bare now, her pale skin a stark contrast against the black silk. The city’s light carved the lines of her body, shadows pooling in the dip of her stomach and the valley between her breasts. She looked at him like he was a feast, and she was starving.
A shudder ran through him, a visceral reaction to her unabashed hunger. Her gaze held a possession that mirrored his own, but it was molten, immediate, and utterly without his shame. He was right to be afraid of her.
This wasn't a surrender. It was an annexation. “Sammy,” he breathed, his own hand stilling.
“Don’t you stop,” she commanded, her voice guttural. She arched her back, offering herself completely to his view. “You watch me. I watch you. That’s the deal.”
The simplicity of her terms dismantled his last defense. He began moving again, his rhythm faltering under the intensity of her stare. She was devouring him with her eyes, consuming every twitch and grimace, every silent prayer he’d ever choked back.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. The sight sent a current of pure, undiluted fear straight through his core. He was terrified of this—of being wanted so completely, so hungrily, by the only ghost that had ever haunted him right back.
His fear was a living thing, coiling tight in his gut as he watched her watch him. He released himself, the motion abrupt, and moved over her, caging her body with his own.
“You win,” he murmured, the words ragged against her throat.
His hand slid between her legs, finding her soaked and ready. She gasped, her hips lifting to meet his touch.
“Always knew you were a sore loser,” she breathed, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He didn’t smile. His eyes were dark, focused pools of intent. He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, a hot, insistent promise. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to her sharp inhale and the yielding pressure.
“Watch me,” he commanded, his voice a low rasp.
She did, her hazel eyes wide and unwavering, reflecting his own desperate hunger back at him. He pushed forward, a slow, deliberate invasion that stole the air from both their lungs.
The fullness was profound, a sharp stretch that melted into a deep, claiming ache. A choked sound escaped her, part surprise, part relief. He held himself there, perfectly still, feeling her body clench and adjust around him, a tight, wet heat that threatened his sanity.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead dropping to hers. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
“See?” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I told you I was serious.”
He stayed perfectly still, buried inside her, their breathing the only sound in the room. Her words hung between them, a tangible truth. He finally moved, a slow withdrawal that made her gasp, followed by a deeper, rolling thrust that pushed the air from her lungs.
“I know,” he breathed against her mouth, his voice thick. “Christ, I know.”
Then he began to move in earnest, establishing a rhythm that was less frantic possession and more devastating claim. Each thrust was measured, deep, his hips rolling against hers with a purpose that went beyond friction. He watched her face, cataloging every flinch of pleasure, every parted-lip gasp.
His hands slid beneath her, palms spanning the small of her back, lifting her into each movement. It was less about taking and more about meeting, a dark and reverent communion.
“Look at me,” he whispered, his pace unwavering.
She obeyed, her hazel eyes glassy with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He wasn’t just fucking her. He was dismantling her, piece by piece, with a tenderness that felt more dangerous than any roughness. Her fingers traced the sweat-slick lines of his tattoos, over the hard planes of his shoulders, as if memorizing him by touch.
“Rebel,” she chanted, his name a broken prayer against his skin.
“I’m here,” he murmured into the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point. “I’ve always been here.”
His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one a deliberate stroke designed to unravel her from the inside out. He was speaking to her in a language of pressure and friction, a dialect she realized, with a jolt, her body had always known.
Her climax built not as a sudden explosion, but as a tidal wave gathering force, pulling everything into its deep, inevitable drag. It started as a slow-burning coil in her core, tightening with each profound, perfect stroke. Her back arched off the bed, a silent scream shaping her mouth.
Her back arched off the bed, a silent scream shaping her mouth. The wave broke over her, a shuddering, full-body release that turned her vision white. She convulsed around him, her legs locking tight around his hips, pulling him deeper inside her as the pleasure crested and fractured.
He groaned, a raw, punched-out sound, and kept moving. His thrusts remained punishingly slow, each one dragging against the sensitive aftershocks trembling through her. He didn’t want it to end. The wet, clasping heat of her felt like the only true place he’d ever belonged.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice shattered. “Please, Rebel.”
He didn’t. His rhythm was a deep, relentless claiming. One hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit with unerring accuracy. The pressure was perfect, circling just right, sending fresh, sharp shocks through her oversensitive nerves.
She cried out, her body bowing again, less a second climax than a continuous, rolling surrender. Her nails dug into the skin of his back, scoring marks he would wear for days. He welcomed the sting, the proof.
He covered her mouth with his, swallowing her gasps. Her tongue was greedy against his, licking into his mouth like she was trying to taste his soul. She shifted, lifting her breast to press the soft, peaked weight against his cheek, a wordless offering.
He turned his head, his lips capturing her nipple, sucking hard as he drove into her. The dual sensation made her sob into his shoulder. She bit down on the cord of his neck, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand him.
“Rebel,” she moaned, the name a wet, hot prayer against his sweat-salted skin.
He was close. The want to stay buried inside her forever was a physical ache in his bones. He focused on the drag of her inner muscles around him, the catch in her breath, the bite of her nails. He burned the sensory details into his mind, another memory to hoard.
“Eyes on me, little ghost,” he grunted, his pace faltering, losing its careful control.
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and dark. She held his gaze as he fell apart. His release was a brutal, silent convulsion, his hips stuttering against hers as he emptied himself deep inside her. He collapsed, his full weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the tangle of her black hair.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. The scent of sex and sweat filled the cool, dark room. He was still inside her, softening, but he made no move to pull away.
She traced the lines her nails had left on his back. “You’re marked,” she whispered, her voice rough.
“Good,” he mumbled into her hair.
He finally shifted, rolling onto his side and taking her with him, keeping her locked against his chest. His arm banded around her waist, possessive even in the stillness.
They lay like that for minutes, limbs tangled, sweat cooling on their skin. He reached down and dragged the rumpled black sheet over them both, a casual gesture of care that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
Her fingers found the bite mark on his neck, exploring the slight indentation with her thumb. “Does it hurt?”
“No.” He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. He kissed them, one by one. “Nothing from you could hurt me.”
It was a lie, and the weight of it settled in his stomach. Everything about her could destroy him. He stared at the ceiling, at the smooth, featureless plane where she’d suggested a camera.
Her breathing evened out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep, her body a lax, trusting weight against him. He remained awake, wired and achingly aware. His thoughts were a reel of her face, her voice, her commands.
'Watch me.'
He shifted carefully onto his back, guiding her until she lay sprawled atop him. Her head found a hollow on his chest, a tangle of dark hair against his skin. His half-hard cock, still buried inside her where he'd left it, nudged deeper with the movement.
He had no intention of letting her pull it out.
Even the softening cling of his flesh inside hers felt like a vow he wasn’t ready to break. His hands, restless, began to move over her again.
One palm spread wide on the small of her back, feeling the delicate ridge of her spine. The other traced circles on the warm, sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his thumb brushing perilously close to where they were still joined.
She stirred with a soft sigh, then a reflexive clench around him that shot a spark straight up his nerve endings.
"Rebel?" Her voice was muffled, thick with sleep.
"Right here." His own voice was rough. He couldn't stop touching her. His fingertips traced the swell of her ass, a slow, proprietary caress. He felt the answering flex of her muscles, another subtle, unconscious tightening.
His hand slid around her hip, dipping between their bodies. He found the slick, swollen heat of her clit, already sensitive from use. He pressed the pad of his thumb against it in a soft, circular rhythm.
She moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest. Her hips made a tiny, seeking movement, taking him deeper.
"You're still..." she breathed, realization dawning through the haze.
"Where I belong," he finished for her. The words felt terrifyingly true. He increased the pressure of his thumb, his other hand still roaming her back, her thigh. He was ravenous for her, a hunger that sex had blunted but couldn’t begin to sate.
He needed the taste of her sweat on his tongue, the sound of her breathing, the shudder that ran through her when his thumb moved just so. Even like this, in the spent quiet, he couldn't get enough.
"I fucken love you," he growled into the dark, the words torn from a place deeper than devotion, uglier and more real. "And I can't get enough."
It was a confession of sickness. It felt like truth.
She lifted her head then, her eyes glinting in the dim light from the window. She looked wrecked, beautiful, and utterly his. A slow, exhausted smile touched her lips.
She sank back down, her mouth finding his ear. "Take everything, Rebel."
She sealed the permission with a bite to his lobe, sharp and sweet. Her body moved against his hand, riding the building friction he was orchestrating. He could feel the fresh, gathering tension in her limbs, the return of that liquid heat around him.
He quickened his thumb, his grip on her thigh tightening. "Again," he commanded, a dark plea. "Come for me again."
She did, with a choked, broken cry that he swallowed with a desperate kiss. Her climax was a soft, rolling quake that milked him, pulling a ragged groan from his own throat as he hardened fully inside her once more.
He could have lived in this loop forever—her pleasure renewing his, a closed circuit of wanting. He rolled her gently beneath him without ever leaving her body, their limbs rearranging in the dark.
He began to move again, a slow, deep reclamation. This time, there was no measured patience, no curated unraveling. This was pure, feral need, stripped of its careful wrapper. She felt it the moment he shifted, his whole body tensing like a sprung trap.
“Rebel,” she breathed, her name a question and an answer.
“Samantha.” Her full name was a growl against her throat, a sound that belonged to the dark chapel of his obsession. He drove deeper, his pelvis grinding against her clit with each thrust, a brutal, perfect pressure. His hand clamped on her ass, fingers digging into the flesh with a force that promised a constellation of bruises by morning.
“I want to tie you to this bed,” he snarled into her ear, his voice shredded. “Keep you here for a week.” His hips snapped faster. “Just my name in your mouth. My cock in you.” He sucked a patch of skin at the join of her neck and shoulder, his teeth a sharp, bright pain. “Until you forget anyone else ever touched you.”
“No one else,” she gasped, the words torn from her.It was true. It had always been true.
“I want to watch you sleep right after,” he continued, his rhythm becoming punishing, the bedframe hitting the wall with a dull, rhythmic thud. He bit her breast, not gently, a claiming that made her cry out. “And then I want to wake you up just like this.” He slid a hand between them, his thumb pressing hard circles on her clit in time with his thrusts. “Every goddamn time.”
The sensations collided—the deep, splitting fullness, the rough friction, the sharp, sweet bites. She was fragments held together only by the force of his wanting. Her moans broke on every jolt of his cock inside her, raw and unfiltered.
“Scream for me,” he demanded, his breath a hot brand on her damp skin.
The coil in her gut tightened, a white-hot wire pulled taut. She fought it, teeth clenched, a choked sob her only sound.
He hooked an arm under her knee, yanking it higher, opening her wider. The angle changed, hitting a place that felt less like pleasure and more like being split open and remade. “I said scream.”
It ripped out of her. “Rebel!”
Her scream fractured into a wordless, soaring note as the climax detonated, a violent seizure of pure sensation. He gave a ragged shout, his own release crashing into him. He drove home one last, brutal time, his hips pressed flush against hers, holding her there as they convulsed violently together, a single shuddering organism.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and syncopated in the dark. He was still inside her, a heavy, spent weight. She could feel the proof of him leaking from her body, a warm, intimate spill. The places he’d bitten and gripped throbbed with a dull, possessive ache.
He finally rolled, taking her with him, her back to his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand splayed low on her stomach. He said nothing. His breathing slowed against her hair.
Her mind, fogged with exhaustion, drifted toward the edge of sleep. A half-formed thought about the time, about her phone buzzing in her discarded shorts on his floor, tried to surface. It was too much effort. The throb between her legs was a lullaby. The smell of him on her skin was a narcotic.
The smell of him on her skin was a narcotic. She drifted in the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, aware only of the heat of his body against her back and the faint, rhythmic stroke of his thumb over her hipbone. Her muscles were liquid, spent. A pleasant soreness hummed in her core.
His thoughts, however, were a sharp, churning current beneath his still exterior. The warmth between her legs was his. The dampness on the inside of her thigh was proof. A possessive, almost feral satisfaction tightened in his chest at the knowledge. Then, a colder, practical question slithered in. He’d been reckless. He’d emptied himself into her twice now with a single, driving need, not a single thought for consequence.
The idea of her swollen with his child was a lightning strike of dark, primal want. A fuck-ton of little ghosts with her eyes. The image was terrifyingly alluring. But it was a fantasy for a man who wasn’t him, a man who could live in the light. His reality was monitors in the walls and a brother who would murder him.
He tensed, his thumb ceasing its motion. “Sammy.” His voice was low, rough from use.
“Mmm?” The sound was sleepy, content.
He inhaled, the scent of her hair filling his lungs. “You on something?”
She shifted slightly, her ass pressing back against him. “Huh?”
“Birth control.” The words felt clinical and ugly in the aftermath. “Are you?”
A soft, breathy laugh vibrated through her. She twisted in his arms to face him, her eyes searching his in the gloom.
She traced the line of his jaw with a fingertip, her touch feather-light. “Yeah. I’m on the shot.” She smiled, a lazy, cat-like curve of her lips. “Why? You planning on making a habit of this?”
The tension left his shoulders in a silent rush. He caught her wandering hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Maybe.” He held her gaze, allowing a fraction of the truth to show. “The idea isn’t entirely horrible.”
“Kids?” Her eyebrow arched, playful yet assessing. “You, changing diapers?”
“I can change anything,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Except my mind about you.”