Chapter 4: Collision Course
The door clicked shut, a soft, final sound in the quiet of the loft. The only light came from the diner’s neon sign across the alley, pulsing a deep, rhythmic red through the single large window. It painted the exposed brick walls in bloody strokes, glinted off the frame of a crooked mirror, and pooled in the hollow of Cole’s throat as he turned to her.
He was just going to offer her a drink. She could see the words forming on his lips. The negotiation. One drink on the couch.
Lana didn’t let him speak. The drive over, the climb up the narrow stairs, the sight of his space—a tidy chaos of tools, sketches, and worn paperback books—had wound the spring inside her to its breaking point. The cool control she’d negotiated with had evaporated, burned away by the raw need she saw reflected in his eyes.
She closed the distance, her hands coming up to fist in the soft cotton of his shirt. She pulled him to her and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a release. A hungry, desperate collision of lips and teeth and pent-up breath. He groaned into her mouth, a sound of pure surrender, and his hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her jawline before his fingers plunged into the dark curls she’d left down. He kissed her back with equal fervor, turning them until her back was against the cool wood of the door. His body pressed against hers, a solid, unyielding line of heat.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “Lana…”
“Don’t talk,” she whispered, her voice thick. “Just… don’t talk.”
She found the buttons of his shirt, her fingers fumbling in the dim, shifting light. He didn’t help, just watched her face as she worked each one free, his chest rising and falling sharply. When the shirt was open, she pushed it back over his shoulders. It snagged on his arms and he shook it off, letting it fall to the floor.
His chest was smooth, leanly muscled from work. The neon light traced the definition of his abdomen, the dip of his navel, the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. She splayed her hands over his skin, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath her palm. He was warm, so alive.
He reached for the hem of her sweater. “This. Off. Please.”
She raised her arms. He peeled it up and over her head, taking the simple cotton tank beneath it with the same motion. The air was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps. His gaze dropped to her breasts, full and restrained by a practical lace bra. He made another one of those gut-deep sounds, his head bowing to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell above the cup.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, his words muffled against her skin.
His hands went to the clasp of her jeans. The button popped, the zpper rasped down. He hooked his fingers in the denim and her panties beneath and pushed, kneeling as he did, forcing the material down her thighs, over her knees, to the floor at her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking the tangled fabric aside. He remained on his knees before her, his hands sliding up the back of her calves, over her thighs. He looked up at her, his face bathed in red light, his eyes black with want.
He nuzzled the thatch of dark curls, breathing her in. “Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice ragged. “Tell me now, or I’m going to taste you.”
A bolt of pure, white-hot lust shot through her. Her knees almost buckled. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, not to pull him away, but to anchor herself. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
He needed no further permission. He pulled her hips forward and buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was flat and firm, lapping at her with a focus that was almost clinical in its intensity. He explored her, learning her folds, the shape of her, the slick, hot evidence of her need. Then he found her clit and zeroed in, a relentless, circling pressure that made her cry out, her head thudding back against the door. He groaned against her, the vibration nearly undoing her right there.
“Cole… Jesus…” The words were torn from her.
He slid a hand around her thigh, his fingers finding her entrance. He pushed one inside, then two, his palm curving to stroke her as his mouth worked her. The dual assault was merciless. She rode his hand, her hips rocking, the coiling tightness in her belly winding beyond bearing. She was babbling, a stream of curses and pleas, her fingers tight in his hair.
When she came, it was a silent, shattering release for a second before the sound broke loose—a raw, broken shout that echoed in the sparse loft. She shook, waves of pleasure pulsing through her as he worked her through it, his touch gentling but not stopping until she pushed weakly at his shoulders.
He stood, his own jeans visibly strained. He kissed her again, and she could taste herself on his lips, salty and intimate. It fueled a new, deeper hunger.
“Bed,” she managed. “Where’s your bed?”
He led her by the hand to a mattress on a low platform frame in the corner. The sheets were rumpled, smelling faintly of him—soap and that faint motor oil scent. He undid his jeans, shoved them and his briefs down, and kicked them away. He was fully erect, his cock hard and thick, curving slightly upward. He was beautiful in his urgency, all lean lines and tense muscle.
He lay back on the bed, pulling her on top of him. She straddled his hips, the tip of him pressing against her wetness. She looked down at him, at his blown pupils, his kiss-swollen lips. The neon flashed, red across his face, then darkness.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his hands gripping her hips.
In answer, she reached between them, guided him to her opening, and sank down.
She took him in slowly, a relentless, full invasion that made them both gasp. He filled her completely, a stretching, perfect burn. She paused, seated fully on him, letting her body adjust to the stunning reality of him inside her. He was breathing through his teeth, his knuckles white where he gripped her.
“You feel… fuck, Lana, you feel incredible,” he choked out.
She began to move. A slow, rolling grind of her hips that drew a guttural moan from him. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, squeezing, kneading, urging her on. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and found a faster rhythm. The slap of skin on skin joined their ragged breathing.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The raw vulnerability there, the undisguised awe, was almost too much. It cracked something open inside her. This wasn’t just a fuck. It was a confession.
He sat up suddenly, wrapping his arms around her, twisting them so she was beneath him without ever slipping out of her. He braced himself on his forearms, cradling her head. His thrusts changed, became deeper, more purposeful, each one hitting a spot that made her see stars.
“Come with me,” he whispered against her ear, his breath hot. “I need to feel you come on my cock.”
His words, filthy and perfect, tipped her over the edge. Her second climax ripped through her, a deeper, more convulsive wave that clenched around him, milking him. With a sharp cry, he drove into her one last, hard time and followed, his body shuddering as he spilled himself inside her, his release hot and endless.
He collapsed atop her, his weight a welcome anchor. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The neon sign across the alley blinked on, off, on, off, a silent witness.
After a long while, he shifted, slipping out of her. He rolled to his side, gathering her against him, pulling a sheet over them both. He pressed a kiss to her damp temple.
She lay there in the dark, listening to his heartbeat slow under her ear. The ghost of his touch still buzzed on her skin. The complexity, the consequences, loomed in the shadows of the room. But for now, in the afterglow, there was just this: the scent of sex and his skin, the solid warmth of him, and the terrifying, thrilling notion that she had, for the first time in years, truly let go.