Chapter 9: The Wall
The moment the door clicked shut, Isaac’s hands were on her. They spun her, a swift, decisive motion that stole her breath before his mouth did. Her back hit the cool wall with a soft thud, the baseball bat clattering forgotten to the floor. His kiss wasn’t gentle; it was a claiming, hungry and possessive, all tongue and teeth and a low growl that vibrated from his chest into hers. The taste of him—dark coffee and wild, stormy night—flooded her senses.
His hands slid down her thighs, rough and sure, and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, the thin cotton of her shorts doing nothing to hide the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection pressed against her. He slammed into her, and the guttural groan that tore from him was raw, unfiltered. There was no preamble, no gentle easing. He was already impossibly hard, stretching her, filling her in one brutal, perfect thrust.
“Fuck, Violet,” he growled against her mouth, his hips already setting a punishing rhythm.
Her head snapped back against the plaster. The shock of it, the sheer animalistic force, lit her nerves on fire. Her nails dug into the fabric of his shirt, then found skin, raking down his shoulders and back. She felt the muscles cord and flex beneath her fingers, heard his sharp intake of breath as her marks scored him. Angry red welts rose in their wake, a stark contrast against his pale skin. Each powerful stroke drove her higher up the wall, her body yielding and demanding in equal measure.
The room, once quiet, was now a symphony of their joining. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin, the ragged gasps she couldn’t suppress, the low, continuous rumble in his throat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, matching the pace he set. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips bucking against his, chasing the coiling heat that built low in her belly with terrifying speed. She was unraveling, and the only anchor was him, this beautiful, furious boy holding her against a wall as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing the frantic pulse there. The sensation—a threat and a promise—sent a violent shudder through her. His thrusts became deeper, more focused, a feral determination in the way he moved against her, inside her.
“Isaac,” she choked out, her voice unrecognizable.
Her climax crashed over her without warning, a tsunami breaking against a fragile shore. Her inner muscles clenched around him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking his length, pulling him deeper. A broken cry was torn from her throat as the pleasure-white heat seared through every nerve ending.
She felt him tense, his rhythm stuttering, a deep, guttural roar building in his chest. He was right there, on the precipice.
“Stop,” she gasped, the word slicing through the haze of her own pleasure.
He froze.
Immediately. His entire body went still, though a tremor of sheer effort shook him. His forehead, damp with sweat, pressed against the wall beside her head. His breathing was a ragged, tortured sound. He didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. He simply obeyed, carefully lowering her until her feet found the worn wooden floorboards. Her legs trembled, barely holding her.
She leaned against the wall, watching him. He stood braced, one hand flat against the plaster, head bowed. The muscles in his back and arms stood out in sharp relief, taut with unreleased tension. She could see the fight in him, the wolf reining itself in, the man holding on by a thread. She let the moment stretch, let the impending wave of his orgasm recede from its peak, pulling back like a tide.
Then, without breaking eye contact—her hazel eyes locked on his pale blue ones, which now glowed with a faint, unnatural amber light—she sank to her knees.
The air changed. The frantic energy shifted, condensed into something sharper, more deliberate. Isaac looked down at her, his expression a complex map of awe, desperation, and a dark, thrilling hunger.
She fully removed his boxer briefs. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and weeping. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. She didn’t touch him yet, just looked up at him from her knees, her chin level with his hips.
“You,” she said, her voice husky but steady, “are magnificent.”
A shaky exhale escaped him. He cradled her cheek, his thumb stroking her jawline. The touch was surprisingly tender amidst the carnality.
She turned her head, pressing a soft kiss to his palm. Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
She heard the sharp hiss of his breath above her. She started slow, a languid exploration, her tongue swirling around the head, tasting the salty, musky essence of him. She loved the weight of him on her tongue, the smooth, hot silk of his skin. She loved the little jerks of his hips he couldn’t quite suppress, the choked-off curses that fell from his lips.
“Christ, Violet…”
She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, remained fixed on his face. She watched every flicker of pleasure, every clench of his jaw, every time his eyes rolled back only to snap back to hers. She wanted to see it all. She wanted him to watch her watching him fall apart.
Her hands came up to grip his hips, not to still him, but to guide him. An invitation.
He understood. His hands tangled gently in her dark hair, not forcing, but holding. He began to move, a tentative rock of his hips. She relaxed her throat, opened for him, a soft, encouraging moan vibrating around his length.
That was all it took.
The last of his control shattered. A low, animal sound ripped from his throat, and he started to fuck her mouth in earnest. It was not gentle. It was deep, and claiming, and perfectly raw. Each thrust hit the back of her throat, and she welcomed it, her eyes watering as she learned his rhythm. The obscene, wet sounds filled the hallway, louder than before. She could smell him, taste him, feel the coarse hair of his pelvis against her nose.
And she loved it. She loved the surrender, the complete vulnerability paired with absolute power. She loved the wrecked, glorious look on his face. She loved the way his thighs trembled, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the broken litany of “fuck, yes, just like that, your mouth, oh god, your fucking mouth” that poured from him.
She worked him with her tongue, her hands sliding around to cup and squeeze his ass, urging him deeper, harder. She was a willing participant, an eager accomplice in his undoing. The tension coiled in him again, tighter, fiercer than before. His movements became more erratic, his breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants.
“Violet, I’m gonna—” he warned, his voice strangled.
She didn’t pull away. She locked her eyes on his and took him deeper, swallowing around him.
With a shout that was half roar, half sob, he came. His body bowed, a violent shudder racking him as he spilled into her mouth, hot and bitter and endless. She took it all, swallowing convulsively, her throat working around him until he was spent, until he was soft and trembling, his hands falling from her hair to brace against the wall again.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing in the dark hallway. The flickering porch light had finally died, leaving them in moonlight and shadow.
Slowly, she pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stayed on her knees, looking up at him. He looked down at her, his expression utterly shattered, raw with an emotion too vast to name.
He slid down the wall opposite her, his back against it, his legs splayed. He reached for her, his hand shaking, and pulled her into the vee of his legs. She came willingly, settling against his chest, her ear over his heart, which still hammered a frantic tattoo.
They sat in silence for a while, the cold of the floor seeping through their clothes, the heat of their bodies mingling.
“I think,” Isaac said finally, his voice raspy and ruined, “you might actually be the scariest person in Beacon Hills.”
Violet let out a weak chuckle, nuzzling against his sweat-damp shirt. “Told you I had a black belt in something.”
He kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. “He won’t come back tonight. The noise… the smell… he’ll think…” He trailed off, but she understood. He’d think they were just having rough sex. A different kind of threat, one Camden would understand and perhaps even disdain. The perfect cover.
“Good,” she said simply. Then, after a beat, “Your eyes glowed. Amber.”
He went very still. The heart under her ear skipped a beat. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t press further. The analytical part of her brain was already cataloging the detail—unnatural eye glow, preternatural strength, acute senses implied by ‘smell,’ heightened aggression paired with intense control—but the part of her that was wrapped around him, sated and safer than she’d felt in years, told it to shut up. For now.
“You’re not… freaked out?” he asked, the vulnerability in his voice so stark it hurt.
She tilted her head back to look at him. In the moonlight, his curls were a mess, his lips kiss-swollen, his eyes clear blue and worried. “Isaac, I just faced down your psychotic father with a baseball bat and then let you fuck me against a wall and my throat. A little eye-glow is basically a candlelit dinner at this point.”
A real laugh burst out of him, sudden and bright. It transformed his face, smoothing the lingering fear and tension. He shook his head, pulling her closer. “You’re insane.”
“You’re just figuring that out?”
They lapsed into silence again, but it was comfortable now. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a deep exhaustion in its wake. The high from the sex was softening into a heavy, pleasant languor.
“We should move,” he murmured into her hair. “Floor’s cold. You’ll get stiff.”
“Too late,” she mumbled, already half-asleep against him. “I’m already stiff. And sore. In the best way.”
He smiled against her temple. With effortless strength, he gathered her up and stood, carrying her down the hall back toward the bedroom. He didn’t set her down on the bed, but carried her into the small, connected bathroom instead. He put her on the closed toilet lid and turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room.
Wordlessly, he peeled his shirt off her, then her shorts. He did it with a clinical gentleness that contrasted wildly with the frenzy of before. He shed his own jeans, kicking them aside, and then guided her under the warm spray.
He washed her with a slow, thorough attention that made her throat tighten. His hands, so capable of violence and passion, were infinitely careful as they smoothed soap over her shoulders, her back, between her legs. He rinsed her hair, massaging her scalp, and she let her head loll forward, boneless with trust. She returned the favor, her hands sliding over the faint, already-fading marks she’d left on his back, the defined planes of his chest and stomach. The water sluiced away the sweat, the scent of sex, the lingering fear.
He turned off the water and wrapped her in a large, clean towel, rubbing her dry before seeing to himself. He found another towel for his hair, ruffling it until his curls were a wild blonde halo.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled back the rumpled sheets, shoving her thesis and Sun Tzu onto the floor with a sweep of his arm. He guided her down, then climbed in beside her, pulling the covers over them both. He turned off the desk lamp, plunging them into moonlight.
They lay facing each other, noses almost touching. His hand came up, tracing the line of her eyebrow, her cheekbone, her lips.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For the blowjob? Anytime. Seriously.”
He pinched her side lightly, making her jump. “You know what for.”
She did. For standing at the door. For wielding the bat. For using her words like weapons. For pulling him back from the edge of his own rage. For not flinching from the glow in his eyes.
She shifted closer, tangling her legs with his. The warmth of him was a solid comfort. “He’s never getting near you again,” she stated, and it wasn’t a promise or a hope. It was a fact, as solid in her mind as the wall she’d been pressed against.
Isaac didn’t argue. He simply nodded, his eyes drifting closed. “I believe you.”
Within minutes, his breathing evened out into sleep. Violet stayed awake a little longer, listening to the quiet house, the distant hum of the refrigerator, the soft sound of his heart. The analysis kicked in, pieces clicking together in the dark: the control he exerted over his own body, the immediate obedience to her ‘stop,’ the speed of his compliance even at the height of passion. It spoke of a discipline born of necessity, of a constant, internal war. The glow, the strength, the senses—it was a puzzle, a terrifying, impossible puzzle.
But the boy sleeping beside her, who trusted her enough to fall asleep first, was not a puzzle. He was real. And for now, that was the only fact that mattered. She closed her eyes, let his scent envelop her, and followed him into sleep.