They’re in Bellefleur, Oregon, and they’re making a mistake.
Rain crashes into the window, the motel mattress groans. Skin on skin, illuminated in restless candlelight, a rush of pulsing shadows passing over them, between them, betwixt. Fucking her feels primal, ancient, vital. He can almost hear the Beltane drums.
She’s hot and slick under the slow sway of his hips, cheeks cherry-wine, fingernails thrusting tiny crescent moons into his ass. Her rain-ruined hair unfurls on the pillow like ink in water. Her kisses are voluptuous, hedonistic, her soft tongue, her lazy lips. They lock eyes and can’t seem to break away.
Don’t trust her, he tells himself, but she’s so tender and proud and something within him aches with profound excitement when he looks at her. They’re just worked up from the case, he tells himself. They’re just blowing off steam. Just this once.
(He can’t afford the distraction. He doesn’t deserve to be touched. She has a boyfriend, he thinks. And anyway, she’s not his type.)
Her orgasm is heartbreakingly earnest. She gasps and laughs in surprise and spasms around his cock and calls him Fox. He’s too wired to come, but after they’re showered and dressed and after they’ve made their sheepish vows not to let it or anything like it happen again, he does something far more intimate.
He tells her the truth.