Chapter 17: The Unexpected Reunion
The Howling Wolf lived up to its name. The wind seemed to funnel directly into the vestibule as Emery pushed inside, carrying a gust of snow and the smell of stale beer. The warmth was a physical blow, thick with humidity and the tang of countless spilled drinks. It was the opposite of her sterile hotel room—loud, lived-in, and reassuringly anonymous.
She found a stool at the end of the bar where the light from a glowing Hamm’s sign barely reached. The whiskey she ordered was cheap and burned all the way down, a punishment that felt like a promise. She replayed Logan’s hands on her hips, the blunt pressure of him, the way he’d looked at her like she was a puzzle he’d already solved. Then Luke’s voice, loving and distant, asking her to perform. The two memories smeared together, leaving a residue of shame.
The door opened again, letting in a slash of frigid air and a man in a heavy parka, the collar dusted with snow. He shrugged it off, hanging it on a peg, and turned. He was solidly built, with a quiet strength in his shoulders and a face that looked accustomed to patience. His eyes, a calm gray, scanned the room with a practiced ease before landing on her. A flicker of something—recognition, assessment—passed through them.
It was the badge, still clipped to his belt, that identified him. Authority, even off-duty. Matt Simmons.
He didn’t approach immediately. He ordered a beer, took a long pull, and let his gaze return to her. She didn’t look away. Challenge or invitation, she wasn’t sure herself.
Finally, he picked up his bottle and walked over, the stool beside her groaning under his weight. “Rough night for a walk,” he said, his voice a low, steady baritone.
“Rough night for a lot of things,” she replied, tracing the rim of her glass.
He nodded, as if she’d said something profound. “I saw you earlier. Coming out of the diner on Main. You looked like you were arguing with the weather.”
A small, surprised laugh escaped her. “I lost.”
“Everyone does, eventually.” He took another sip. “You’re not from here.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“The boots are too clean. The way you hold yourself… like you’re just visiting your own life.” His observation was clinical, not unkind. “Vacation?”
“Something like that. A pause.”
“Pauses are good.” He turned to face her more fully. The calm in him was a tangible thing, a still pool after her internal hurricane. “I’m Matt.”
“Emery.”
“Emery.” He tested the name. “You drinking to remember or to forget?”
“Tonight? To feel nothing.” She finished her whiskey, signaled for another.
The conversation unspooled easily. He talked about his shift, a missing dog case that had a happy ending, the relentless paperwork. He asked about her travels, and she gave him the polished, glossy version—the sunsets, the airports, the freedom. He listened, his eyes noting the shadows under hers, the slight tremor in her hand when she lifted her glass. He didn’t call her on the omissions.
An hour bled away. The bar grew louder. Their knees brushed under the bar, and neither moved away. The warmth between them was a new source of heat in the room.
“I should get back,” she said eventually, the words lacking conviction.
“It’s a blizzard out there. Let me walk you.” It wasn’t a question. He was already standing, pulling on his parka.
They stepped into a world turned monochrome and furious. The wind stole their breath. He took her elbow, his grip firm and guiding, and they moved through the white void, the only sounds the crunch of their steps and the howl in the wires.
Her hotel was two blocks away. They made it one.
He stopped in the lee of a brick building, a narrow service alley swallowed by deep shadows. The world shrank to the space between them, muffled by snow.
“I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he said, the words leaving his mouth in a cloud. The calm professional was gone. In his eyes was a focused, hungry intensity that made her stomach clench.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” His hands came up, cradling her face. They were warm, rough. “I know you’re running. I know you’re here, now.”
Then his mouth was on hers, not asking, taking. The kiss was deep and searching, a tasting of whiskey and latent power. It was nothing like Logan’s possessive claim or Luke’s familiar affection. This was consummate control, expertly applied. A moan vibrated in her throat.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
She couldn’t. The word wouldn’t form. She was so tired of thinking.
He took her silence for assent. In one smooth motion, he spun her, pressing her front against the cold, rough brick. His body covered hers, shielding her from the wind. His hands slid under her sweater, palms scraping over her ribs, finding her breasts. His thumbs rubbed her nipples into stiff peaks through the lace of her bra.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured against her ear.
“Cold,” she gasped.
“Liar.” His hands went to the button of her jeans, yanked it open. He shoved them down over her hips along with her panties, the freezing air a shock against her bare skin. He knelt behind her in the snow.
His hands gripped the cheeks of her ass, spreading her. He didn’t speak. He leaned in and licked a long, slow, wet stripe from the tight furl of her asshole up through her dripping slit to the swollen bud of her clit.
She cried out, her forehead grinding against the brick.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice thick. “You’re so wet for me already.” He said it like a discovery, like a victory. He buried his face in her, his tongue flattening against her cunt, lapping at her with a thorough, devastating hunger. He circled her clit, then sucked it hard into his mouth, applying a ruthless, rhythmic pressure.
Pleasure, sharp and blinding, detonated at her core. Her legs shook. One of his arms banded around her thighs, holding her up, holding her open. His other hand came up, two fingers pushing into her without ceremony, curling upwards, searching.
He found the spot. A rough, curling motion that made her see stars. His tongue and fingers worked in concert, a relentless assault on her senses. The crude, wet sounds echoed in the alley, obscene and exhilarating.
“I need to be inside you,” he snarled, standing. She heard the rip of his zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then the thick, hot press of the head of his cock against her entrance. He was big, stretching her.
He didn’t enter her slowly. He gripped her hips, aligned himself, and drove forward with one brutal, complete thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt inside her.
The sound she made was pure, gutted sensation. He filled her utterly, a solid, claiming presence that obliterated thought.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, his hips pistoning against her ass. The slap of skin, the slick squelch of her arousal, his ragged grunts in her ear—it was a raw, animal symphony. The brick scraped her cheek. The snow swirled around their joined bodies.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. “You feel how deep I am? This cunt is taking every inch.” His words were filthy, degrading, and they sent another violent thrill through her. “You came in here looking for this, didn’t you? To get filled up by a stranger in an alley.”
She couldn’t deny it. This was the nothing she’d wanted. To be an object, a vessel, for this single, primal act. Her orgasm built again, a tidal wave gathering force from the friction of his cock, the possession in his voice.
“That’s it,” he hissed, feeling her inner muscles begin to flutter and clamp around him. “Come on my cock. Do it.”
It crashed over her, a convulsive, silent scream of a climax that tore through her limbs and left her weak. He fucked her through it, his rhythm growing erratic, frantic.
With a final, deep plunge, he stilled, buried to the root. A hot, guttural groan burst from his chest as he pulsed inside her, flooding her with his release. He held her there, pinned to the wall, both of them trembling with the aftershocks, steam rising from their heated skin into the frozen air.
Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. The cold rushed into the space he left behind. He gently tugged her jeans back up over her tender flesh, his movements now careful, almost reverent. He turned her to face him. His expression was unreadable in the dark—the hunger sated, the control restored.
He wiped a smear of her own wetness from her chin with his thumb. “Your hotel’s just there,” he said, his voice back to that steady baritone, as if the last ten minutes had been an hallucination. He zipped his own fly. “Can you make it?”
She nodded, numb.
He walked her to the hotel’s side door, a gentleman again. He didn’t try to kiss her goodbye. “Goodnight, Emery.”
She stumbled inside, up to her room. In the bathroom, under the harsh light, she cleaned herself. His scent was on her. His spend leaked from her, a physical truth.
She stared into the mirror, at the red mark on her cheek from the brick. She hadn’t found nothing. She’d found something concrete and devastating. A new kind of hollow, carved out by a man who saw her clearly, used her thoroughly, and walked away without a backward glance.
The phone on the nightstand was dark. The storm raged. The ashes weren’t just glowing now. They were blown away entirely, leaving only cold, barren ground.