Chapter 7: Midnight Heat
The cold had settled deep, a patient parasite in her marrow. Violet stared at the ceiling, the stripes of moonlight from the blinds now familiar tracks in the dark. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it: the shift in the clearing, the way the gold had bled into his irises like spilled honey, the quiet click of his claws. A secret that should have shattered her world, but instead, it had only focused it, sharpened every sensation. The memory wasn’t what chilled her. It was the memory of his heat beside her in the Jeep, the faint tremor in his hands on the wheel after laughing, the way his scent—rain and worn leather and something fundamentally wild—had filled the small space.
She was shivering. The comforter was useless. It wasn’t the room’s temperature. It was the absence of the heat he’d radiated.
“Isaac.”
Her voice was a low rasp in the silent house. She didn’t call out again. She just waited, counting the frantic beats of her own heart.
Less than ten seconds later, his silhouette filled her doorway. He was breathing a little too fast, his body tense and ready. The moonlight caught the lean lines of his torso, the pale scars that mapped a history she could only guess at. He wore only a pair of dark boxer briefs, his hair a tousled mess from sleep. His heart was a pounding drum she could almost feel through the floorboards.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was gravel, sleep-rough and alert.
“I’m still cold,” she said, the lie transparent. She didn’t move from the center of the bed, just watched him. Her eyes were black in the dim light, wide and unblinking. The hunger in them was a naked, undeniable thing.
He understood. The tension in his shoulders changed, coiling inward, becoming something hotter, more immediate. He took a step into the room, the old floorboard creaking under his weight. “The heater’s fine,” he murmured, his gaze locked on hers.
“It’s not the heater.”
Another step. He was at the edge of the bed now. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his eyes. The air crackled, thick with unsaid words and the ghost of his confession in the pines.
She reached for him. Her fingers, cold from clutching the sheets, brushed against the warm skin of his abdomen. He inhaled sharply, a sound like a gasp. Then her hand fisted in the waistband of his briefs, and she pulled.
He came down onto her, and her mouth found his in a searing, open kiss. It was all teeth and desperation, no finesse, just a raw claiming. She tasted of mint and the bitter dregs of coffee. He tasted of sleep and something darkly sweet. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs rough against her cheekbones as he kissed her back, deepening it, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
She pushed, rolling them. He let her, his strength yielding, and she straddled him, her thin sleep shorts doing nothing to hide the heat between her legs as she ground down against the hard ridge of his cock straining against the cotton of his briefs. The friction was exquisite, maddening. A sharp, punched-out sound escaped her.
“Fuck,” he breathed against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her hips, his fingers digging in. He guided her, setting a brutal, rocking rhythm that made her see stars. The rough fabric of his briefs, the dampening thin cotton of her shorts—it was too much and not enough. Every drag sent electric jolts straight to her core.
“Isaac,” she gasped, tearing her mouth from his. Her own hands were frantic, pushing at the waistband of his underwear, shoving it down just enough to free him. He sprang hot and heavy into her palm. She stroked him once, her thumb smearing the bead of wetness at his tip, and he cursed again, a filthy, beautiful sound.
He didn’t wait. His own hand snaked between their bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic of her shorts and into the slick heat of her. She cried out, back arching, as two of his fingers pushed inside her, curling perfectly. He was relentless, his mouth on her throat, sucking marks into her skin as his fingers fucked her with deep, driving strokes.
“You’re so wet,” he snarled into her ear, his breath scalding. “All that fucking talking. All that genius. And you’re dripping for me.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only rock against his hand, her own grip tightening on his cock, her thumb circling his head in a rhythm that had him shuddering. She was close, so close, the coil inside her winding impossibly tight.
“Now,” she managed to choke out. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He shifted, his fingers leaving her with a wet sound that made her whimper. He gripped her hips, lifting her as he positioned himself. The blunt, hot press of him at her entrance was a promise, an ache about to be obliterated. She sank down, taking him in one slow, devastating inch, her inner muscles fluttering, stretching, burning so perfectly around his thickness. A guttural moan was torn from both of them.
Then, a thunderous bang shattered the night.
It wasn’t a knock. It was an assault on the front door, wood straining against its frame, a sound of imminent violence. It echoed through the still house like a gunshot.