Page 87 of What We Don't Say: Part One

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His hand tightens at my wrists. “You’re still in that kitchen. You’re still calculating how to win. Come back here.”

He starts moving again, slower this time but just as deep, forcing me to feel every inch. I try to rush it once more and he stops completely, buried to the hilt, waiting.

“Color.”

“Green.” My voice is wrecked. “Please—Idris—I need—”

“What do you need?”

“You. Harder. Please.”

He gives it to me. The pace turns relentless again, the full force of his body driving into mine, and this time he reaches down and wraps a hand around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts—tight, unforgiving, perfectly timed. The dual sensation rips a broken sound out of my throat. My wrists strain against his hold. My hips try to buck and find no leverage.

“That’s it,” he says, low and rough against my ear. “Stay with me. Color.”

“Green—fuck—green—”

He keeps me there, pinned and open and taken, until the rut finally has nowhere left to go except through him. The release hits like a breaking wave—violent, full-body, my cock pulsing hard in his fist as I come across the mat in thick stripes, every muscle locking tight around him. The sound I make is guttural and raw. Idris fucks me through it without slowing, dragging the orgasm out until I’m shaking and oversensitive beneath him.

Only then does he let himself follow. A few more deep, punishing thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside me with a low, controlled groan, his forehead pressed hard to the back of my shoulder. I feel every pulse of him, the heat of it, the way his weight settles heavier as the tension leaves his body.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays over me, one hand sliding from my wrists to the nape of my neck, the other braced near my ribs, holding me down through the first long wave of trembling. My breath comes in harsh, uneven pulls. The sharp, threatening edge of the rut begins to drain, leaving something tired and hot and manageable in its place. His weight keeps me from floating too far out of my own skin. The marks of his fingers on my hips and the ache of him still buried inside me are the only things that feel real enough to trust.

When it finally burns down, Idris doesn't move away from me. He stays where he is, heavy and breathing hard, one hand still at the back of my neck like he knows the rage hasn't disappeared just because my body has spent itself.

When it finally burns down, Idris doesn’t move away from me. He stays heavy over my back with one hand at my neck and the other spread near my ribs while his cock softens inside me.

The air system hums overhead until my breathing falls into time with it. My heart keeps slamming, but it has a rhythm now. The rage is still there, and it has edges I can hold.

Idris finally shifts onto his side, dragging me with him because apparently even after putting me on the floor, he has opinions about aftercare. His hand cups the back of my neck, and his thumb moves once, twice, slow enough to make my eyes burn.

“I hate him,” I say.

“I know.” Idris’ voice is quiet now, scraped down from command into something rougher. His hand stays at my neck, not letting me drift too far from my own body.

“No, you don’t.” I turn my face toward the mat, then force myself to look back at Idris because he deserves the full ugliness of it if he's going to keep standing here. “I hate how he sounds right. I hate that for one second, before I can get my head around the sentence, I hear him and think maybe there’s a rule I missed. Maybe there’s a thing Callie will believe because it sounds like care.”

Idris says nothing, but his mouth tightens. That is enough to make the words spill faster.

“He keeps getting close to the truth and bending it.” My throat feels raw. I can still taste him and fury and the metallic bite of my own restraint. “Theo is raw. Fine. The day should be gentle. Fine. Early spikes make everything louder. Fine. Then somehow the next step is always Callie standing a little farther away.”

Idris’ hand stills at my neck.

I look at him. “You see it.”

“I see enough to dislike the pattern.”

That isn't the same as agreement, but it is more than he has given me before. I take it and hold it like a blade.

“She woke up smiling,” I say, quieter now. “Callie. This morning. She woke up smiling because Theo built a place withher in it and nobody moved her. I felt it. I felt her believe us for a little while.”

Idris’ eyes close briefly.

“If Garrett makes her doubt that,” I continue, and my voice drops until it barely sounds like mine, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You’ll come to me before you do it.” Idris opens his eyes again, and there is nothing gentle in them now. Only command, stripped clean and aimed at me. “You’ll come to me, Sloane. You’ll come to me, and you’ll let me hold the line until you can think.”