I pull my mouth from hers, and keeping our gazes locked, I slide against her slick heat, slipping up and down. Her breath falters. Her mouth parts, her chest rising and falling.
Jesus Christ, how have I lived without this? Without her?
I notch the head of my cock at her entrance and push in, just an inch, then pull out. She whimpers, her pupils dilating, her hips shifting under me, seeking more. I repeat the movement, gliding in halfway then moving back.
“Oliver,” she groans.
Without warning, I thrust in to the hilt. She gasps.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“God, yes.” She stirs under me, her hips lifting, encouraging me to move. “You feel so good.”
I fight the urge to pound into her over and over. Not this time. Leisurely, I pull out and then drive back in, keeping my gaze on hers, making the movements steady.
She stares right back, her eyes hazy with desire. Her fingers rub against my neck and trail down my back. I take her slowly, deliberately, over and over.
Every thrust is achingly sweet. Every touch is raw. Every glance is tender. I angle my hips and monitor her every reaction, learning how she likes it, seeking the position that will shove her into pleasure. When she finally escapes into bliss, I follow, letting go of all the rigid control tying me together and surrendering every piece of myself into her waiting arms.
“Will you tell me how you met Archer?” Her voice is easy, light, and undemanding.
I’m aware that I don’t have to answer, and I know she won’t press or push or be upset if I choose to keep my secrets to myself. Maybe it’s because she understands, or maybe it’s because of the safe cocoon of her arms around me or the darkness enveloping both of us in a soft embrace, but I want to tell her. I’m not afraid to share the dark pieces of my past. I know with bone-deep certainty that she has the compassion and the strength to carry them with me.
I stroke her arm, reveling in her softness. “After my mom died, I went to live with my aunt. My mother’s aunt, actually. She was kind to me, but she was in her seventies. She died when I was ten, and there was no one else, so I went into the system.”
She lifts her head slightly and rests her chin on my chest, her hair tickling my skin.
“It wasn’t all bad,” I tell her, reading the fear in her eyes. The assurances won’t last long. This isn’t a fairy tale. “Most of the families I was placed with were well intentioned, if overwhelmed. But I didn’t stay in those homes for long.” Sighing, I pick up a strand of her hair and rub it between my fingers. “An unshakable fact about humanity is that some people are kind and doing their best, and others, when given any little grain of power, become tyrants.”
I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge that this is where the crux of my relationship issues began. I lost both of my parents at a young age, then I lost my aunt, and then I lived with monsters. It doesn’t take a psychotherapist to recognize my abandonment issues and the emotional detachment I’ve relied on to survive.
A crease appears between her brows, and I stroke it with my thumb.
“I ended up with a couple who had a half a dozen other fosters. I was a damaged child. I got in fights, snuck out, broke every rule they tried to impose. They didn’t do anything that would leave a mark. They couldn’t afford to lose any of us since they were paid per child, and the more care a child required, the more they received. But they used every type of nonphysical punishment possible to assert their control. They would lock me in a small dark closet for days. Withhold food. Threaten to harm the others if I didn’t obey.”
Her hands tighten on my chest.
“I finally realized the only way I could win, the only way I could truly be free, was to take action. Running away and living on the streets wasn’t an option. That’s where troubled kids are lured away by true monsters. I needed a better plan. I was always good in school without even trying, so I focused my attention on improving my grades enough to get scholarships. Then I applied for the youth summer camp without telling my foster parents. They couldn’t fight it without drawing attention. It was an escape even if only temporary.”
Piper is tense in my arms, but her gaze is soft.
“Archer and I were placed in the same cabin. We weren’t friends, not at first. I was angry at the world, ready to fight everyone who looked at me the wrong way. That’s when I started hoarding food.”
I don’t feel shame over the act, not anymore. I recognize that I was only a child trying to survive, but the memories are still sharp and jagged.
“I would hide it under my bunk, in my bags. I saved what I could stuff in my pockets during mealtimes, but then I also snuck into the kitchens at night and stole. It was a compulsion. Having a stockpile gave me control. It made me feel safe.” I swallow. “When you live in chaos as a child, you’ll do anything to impose order on the world.”
Her lips brush my chest then move up and graze my jaw, a sweet comfort.
Some of my tension falls away. I keep going. “One night, when I snuck out and broke into the kitchen, there was a group of other boys in there, waiting. They jumped me.”
Her eyes widen.
I wave a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t the first time. They had messed with me before. I was small for my age, and bullies love an easy target. But Archer had heard me sneaking out and followed. He helped me fight them off. And you’ve seen him—he’s the size of a small mountain. He’s always big. After that, the boys left me alone, and Archer and I formed an alliance.”
“And then you met Mason after that?”
I nod. Mason lives in LA. Piper met him when she left Ben. She had nowhere to go and reached out to Finley for help. Archer called Mason, since he was in the area, and Mason got to Piper first and took her somewhere safe to wait while we flew out to get her.