Page 28 of Chasing Kit

He pulled me up eventually and laid me back against the pillows. His hands shook as he undressed me, his knuckles brushing my skin with tenderness that made my chest ache.

“We need lube,” he muttered, irritation slicing through his voice. “Damn it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t know the Lords too well, but I think they’d have some wild parties. Check in there.” I nodded at the wooden nightstand.

He yanked open the top drawer and made a sound of triumph, presenting me with his find. I snickered, but my amusement quickly disappeared as he prepped me. He was gentler than I’d expected, and I appreciated it. The stretch burned, and even though I used a dildo on the regular, my hole didn’t have the experience of a very human dick.

When War finally pushed inside me, he did it while watching my face. His scarred chest heaved and his eyes turned dark and endless. He moved like a man who had survived something terrible and couldn’t believe he was allowed to have this—allowed to be soft and wanted.

The stretch was a slow, aching revelation—not pain, exactly, but an insistent pressure that unraveled something tight inside me. I wanted to memorize every ridge, every pulse, and the way he filled the hollow spaces I hadn’t known were empty. The burn lingered, sweet and terrible, until I couldn’t tell where my body ended and the wanting began.

I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him deeper. The expression on his face was caught somewhere between hungry and awed. He moved like a man who was precise in his thrusts. He knew exactly how to angle his hips to hammer my prostate, and it was the kind of sensation that sent me to heaven. Words didn’t have meaning when I could feel this.

His dick worked magic, and I was his enraptured audience. He moved like he was memorizing me, his hands lingering where I gasped, his mouth finding spots that made my toes curl. I hadn’t expected to feel this seen or wanted. It wasn’t just my first time, this moment was ours.

When he came, he buried his face in my neck and shook apart, every scar pressed against my heart. I wasn’t far behind. When I finally touched my hand to my dick, the world around me splintered in the most delicious way. Stars burst behind my closed eyelids and my dick exploded. I cried out.

It was perfect and exactly how I wanted my first time to go. I'd told him I wanted it hard and fast and rough, but War had given me something else. Something deep and gentle. He'd known better than I did what I really needed.

He pulled out of me gently, with careful consideration, and grabbed his shirt. He used the material to clean us up, wiping at the cum and lube, and I waited eagerly, desperate for his attention. He didn’t give me what I wanted. His attitude screamed escape and I didn’t want him to go. When he shifted to get off the bed, I snatched his elbow. He gave me a long look.

“Don’t ignore me,” I pleaded.

Did I sound clingy? I hoped not. Guys back in high school laughed about insecure girls, but vulnerability had taken me into its jaws and it would eat me whole if War walked away.

To my relief, he settled onto the bed. He didn’t hug me or pull me close. He stayed rigid on his back, like he was afraid to touch me in case he had another nightmare. I didn’t reach for him. The bruises from earlier had claimed me as his, but there was a chance he might not be able to stop the next time.

Sleep evaded me. My eyes refused to close. War had finally passed out beside me, his breathing deep and even. I didn’t want him to leave. If staying meant risking another one of his episodes, I’d take it. My life felt cheap compared to this moment.

He was handsome in his sleep, the lines of concern smoothed from his brow and his mouth soft. How long would he remain peaceful before his nightmares returned? It didn’t matter. I was prepared. Nothing would make me run from him. Not even his trauma. He’d protected me, and now I wanted to return the favor.

I traced my thumb over his cheekbone, taking in the sharpness of his facial features. He was warworn, but made of reinforced stone—a man who’d been tested under the most difficult conditions and endured.

He was a survivor. He might not see it, but I did. No matter what he said, no matter how broken he thought he was, I saw him for what he’d always been. Resilient. That was the most attractive quality about him.

Yet, he worked for my father, a man I’d always thought was nothing more than a humble businessman. I supposed he was that, too, minus the humble part, but he was also a criminal. How far did he go? Did he order people to die? Of course he did. No one got to the top of the food chain without hurting and murdering people on the way up. And the photo already proved he’d killed.

The thought had my stomach churning. I’d trusted my dad, and he’d lied to me. I understood why he’d kept his activities a secret when I was a child, but now I was an adult. I deserved to know the truth. Did Mom know? What about Sky?

Damn it. A memory of Sky surfaced—last Christmas after he came home for the holidays, in Dad’s study. I’d walked in on them, their voices low and sharp. The argument had stopped cold. Sky had flinched, a flicker of guilt in his eyes, while Dad’s glare could’ve frozen fire.

When I’d asked what was wrong, Sky had merely muttered, “Dad’s being Dad,” and steered me out of the room. The tension hadn’t made sense then, but now it clicked into place with sickening clarity. Were they arguing about the business? The thought made it all worse. My younger brother knew. He’d carried the reality of this while I’d studied it in textbooks.

I groaned quietly and hid my face in my pillow. I’d really spent my whole life with my head buried in the sand. If Sky figured it out, why hadn’t I? I was the one who’d studied criminal justice.

“Mm. What are you thinking about?” War murmured, startling me.

How long had I stared at the ceiling, stuck in my mind?

I studied his drowsy brown eyes, fogged with sleep and gentler than I’d ever seen them. There was something special about him waking up beside me, and I was going to commit this image to my memory.

“How long has my father been in business?” I asked, voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

War stilled. Silence spread between us. For a moment, I didn’t expect an answer, but finally, he shook his head. “I’m not sure. My first job for him was his bodyguard. But there are men who’ve been with him from the very beginning. I think he started before you were born, but he didn’t get to the top until later down the track.”

“Can you tell me everything he does?”

“No.” This time, War didn’t hesitate. He sat up in bed, and I followed, watching his expressions carefully. He’d reverted to his impassiveness, and while I missed the softness of a freshly roused War, I loved—no, liked, every version of him.