Chapter 3: Proving His Worth
The sound that tore from Raven’s throat was half-gasp, half-sob, raw and stripped bare. Her fingers scrambled against the gritty wood of the bench, nails digging for purchase. Danny didn’t hesitate. He guided himself with one hand, the other splayed possessively on the small of her back, and pushed into her with a single, devastating stroke.
She was tight, impossibly hot, and wet. He sank to the hilt, a groan ripped from his own chest, his forehead falling against her sweat-slicked spine. For a second, they were frozen, a statue of perfect, joining tension. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, oblivious buzz of bees.
Then she pushed back against him, a sharp, demanding roll of her hips. “Move,” she ordered, her voice muffled against her own arm. “Fucking move, Danny.”
He obeyed. He withdrew slowly, almost completely, savoring the sinful clutch of her, then slammed back in. The bench shuddered, tools rattling on their hooks. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her harder against the unyielding edge. It was not gentle. It was a claiming, an answer to a question she’d asked with her eyes in the garden.
His hands moved to her hips, holding her in place, his grip sure to bruise. He leaned over her, his mouth at her ear. The scent of her hair, of sex, of clean sweat, filled his lungs.
“Still think I’m just some kid?” he growled, the words rough against her skin. He slowed his thrusts to an agonizing, controlled crawl, drawing each one out until she whined in frustration.
His hand slid around her ribcage, cupping her breast, his thumb and forefinder finding her nipple. He pinched, hard, twisting slightly. She cried out, her whole body clenching around him in a vicious, perfect spasm.
“No,” she gasped. “God, no.”
“Say it,” he demanded, resuming his thrusts, deeper now, harder, each one punctuating a word. “Tell me what I am.”
“Danny—” she tried, but it ended in a choked moan as he hit a spot that made her legs tremble.
He pinched her nipple again, a sharp, bright punishment. “Tell me.”
“You’re a man,” she spat, the admission torn from her. “You’re a fucking man. Now stop playing and ruin me.”
A fire exploded in his veins. The careful control he’d clung to shattered. He let go of her breast, bracing both hands on the bench on either side of her, and fucked her in earnest. It was a frenzy of need, of years of bottled-up fantasy made screamingly real. The shed filled with the sounds of their collision: skin on skin, the wet, rhythmic slap of their joining, the creaking protest of the old wood, their mingled curses and pleas.
He could feel her tightening, coiling, her breaths coming in sharp, animal pants. “I’m close,” she warned, her voice shattered. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
“Look at me,” he commanded, his own release a thundercloud building in his gut.
She turned her head, cheek pressed to the bench. Her eyes were black with desire, her lipstick smeared, her expression one of utterly wrecked abandon. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Come for me, Raven,” he snarled, driving into her with everything he had.
Her orgasm hit her like a seizure. Her back arched violently, a raw, screaming shout torn from her throat as she clenched around him, wave after pulsing wave. The sight, the feel of it, undid him completely. With three final, ragged thrusts, he followed her over, his own shout muffled against her shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside her, his vision whiting out at the edges.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths, slowly settling. The world, the garden, the forbidden line they’d incinerated—it all rushed back in, heavy and silent.
He softened inside her, but didn’t pull away, his weight resting on her for a moment. She was pliant, utterly spent. He pressed a kiss, unexpectedly tender, to the knob of her spine.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The air felt cool on his wet skin. He turned her around to face him. She looked dazed, her gaze unfocused, then it sharpened on him. She didn’t smile. She just studied his face, as if seeing it for the first time.
He found his boxers and jeans, pulling them up with unsteady hands. She remained leaning against the bench, not bothering to cover herself, watching him. The marks from his mouth and hands were already darkening on her pale skin.
“Sam is going to murder you,” she said finally, her voice hoarse. There was no anger in it. Just a flat, stark fact.
Danny swallowed, the reality a cold splash. “I know.”
“And then she’ll murder me.” Raven pushed off the bench, finding her shirt on the floor. She pulled it on, not looking at him. The casual intimacy of the act, after what they’d just done, was dizzying. “This was a mistake.”
The words were like a physical blow. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“It was,” she insisted, finally meeting his eyes. Her own were conflicted, a storm of regret and residual heat. “You’re my little sister’s best friend. You’re practically family. This is… fucking messy.”
“I don’t care,” he said, the conviction surprising him with its force.
“You will.” She ran a hand through her wrecked hair. “I have a life, Danny. Causes, grad school applications, a boyfriend who thinks I’m studying at the library.”
The last word hung in the dusty air. Boyfriend. Of course. Someone her age, with a future, not a fuck-up ghost-hunter with a secret identity and a desperate crush.
The shame began to curdle the aftermath of his pleasure. He felt suddenly very young, very stupid.
She saw it on his face. Her expression softened, just for a second. She stepped closer, her hand coming up to cup his jaw. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone. “It was good. It was… fucking incredible. But it’s once. It’s done.”
She kissed him, then. It was soft, final, and tasted like an ending. Before he could respond, she pulled away, opened the shed door, and stepped back out into the blinding, judgmental sun.
Danny stood alone in the dim, fragrant shed, surrounded by the ghosts of what had just happened. The warmth of her was still on his skin, the scent of her on his clothes. From outside, he heard the distant chatter of other volunteers arriving, the innocent sounds of a community garden coming to life.
He had gotten exactly what he’d fantasized about. And it felt like he’d just broken something he could never, ever fix.