Page 51 of Still Missing You

I pull off his cock. “Soon,” I promise.

“Now, please,” he whimpers, the sound going straight to my already aching dick. I’m desperate to get inside, but I won’t risk hurting him. “I can’t hang on.”

“I think you can.” I scissor my finger, stretching him and earning another needy groan that singes my nerve endings. But I give his cock a break, mouthing his tight, round balls instead.

“Holy shit!” Dylan’s fingers tighten in my hair. “Please. I’m ready. I am.”

I ease back and roll a condom onto my cock. My knee is stiff, but it doesn’t hurt. Not that I’d notice if it did. I’m too focused on Dylan and the hunger gnawing inside me.

I shuffle closer, making sure my good knee is taking most of my weight, and ease his knees over my shoulders, rolling him back onto his back. The tip of my cock is positioned at the edge of his entrance.

“Yes, finally. Fuck me,” Dylan says, voice rasping with a frantic edge.

I grin, sinking into his perfect, tight heat slowly. Once I’m all the way in, I wait, straining and shaking, while I give him time to adjust before I start to move. It doesn’t take us long to find our rhythm.

I’m lost in the heat of him, and I feel my balls draw tight. I’m close already. I take his cock in hand and stroke him until he lets out a ragged moan and spurts across his stomach and chest. Then I follow him over the edge.

Afterward, we lie tangled in each other’s limbs, the world narrowed to the quiet room and the rhythm of our breathing. Dylan’s fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, and for the first time since I woke, the memory of the shadow loosens its grip.

Whatever came before, Dylan is back. And this time, I don’t want to lose him. It doesn’t erase the danger we’re facing, or fix everything that’s broken. But it feels like a beginning, and for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Nineteen

Dylan

I’m in a better mood than I should be. We’re on our way to see the man who probably killed Matthew and tried to kill Hunter, but warmth still spreads through my chest every time I glance at him across the cab ... clinging to the passenger door handle, jaw set, eyes alert, while I drive.

The weight of what we’re doing should be crushing. And yet it isn’t.

Hunter catches me looking and lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

I smile before I can stop myself. “Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes, unconvinced, but lets it go. The corner of his mouth quirks upward anyway, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and doesn’t mind.

“Eyes on the road,” he tells me, and juts his chin at the windshield.

“I’m fine. Been driving since I was sixteen.”

It had snowed overnight, leaving the roads slick with slush. I’ve driven through Vermont winters my whole life. Hunter gripping the door like I’m about to steer us into a tree feels like an overreaction.

I pull into Lyle’s driveway, and Hunter and I exchange a glance. Lyle’s rusted white pickup is in the driveway. We’d staked out the man’s house more than once since we came to Coldwater, and no matter how long we waited, he hadn’t turned up. Maybe after the break-in and Hunter’s fall, Lyle figured we’d back off.

“Park at the bottom of the driveway so we block him in if he tries to make a run for it,” Hunter says. I nod and cut the engine, doing my best to ignore the way Hunter’s voice slides under my skin. I like this version of Hunter, focused and intent, different from the boy I knew, but maybe not so much. He’d always taken hold of the situation, and even back then, I’d felt secure, taken care of.

We get out of the car, and the cold air bites at my hands and face. My breath creates thin puffs of smoke. Hunter moves around the front of the truck, his limp barely perceptible. Anyone who didn’t know him would have no idea that his knee was giving him trouble. There’s a coiled energy to him. If Lyle tries to bolt, he’ll regret it, injured knee or not.

Lyle’s stone cottage is old and squat, and the porch light flickers as if it’s on the verge of burning out. I knock, but there’s no answer. He’s home. His truck is in the driveway, and I can hear the muffled murmur of a television.

I knock again, harder this time. Footsteps sound inside, and the door cracks just wide enough for Lyle to peer out with sharp eyes and a defensive scowl. “What do you want?”

“We have questions.” Hunter’s voice is calm, but I can hear the edge beneath it.

Lyle snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I got nothing to say to you.”

“We just want to talk.”

“Yeah, cops already did.”