“Tell me to stop,” he says, and I hear the echo of when he said that before. In the hallway, right before he put his hand beneath my nightgown and made me come.

“Don’t stop.”

“Fuck,” he says, and then he’s pulling out and pushing back inside. Each thrust pushes deeper somehow. It feels like too much until his thumb finds my clit. He rubs using the same rhythm, and soon I’m melting against the bed, turning into a puddle of arousal.

“What number is this?” I ask, breathless.

“Number six?” he asks, more a question. “Seven?”

Another thrust inside me. “Eight. Nine. Ten.” He’s counting every single push, and I can’t disagree. Each one feels like a revelation. Each one sends pleasure cascading through my body. Soon my hips rise up to meet him, little breathy moans escaping me each time.

He’s moving faster and faster, harder and harder. I’m losing my grip on reality. Everything is a blur. Everything is sensation. He chokes on a cry and throws his head back. I watch his throat work as he comes, his tendons straining, his muscles taut. His hand holds my hips in place, leaving bruises on my skin. His other hand presses tight against my clit. The sight of him in rapture is what sends me over. I grind my hips against his sweet pressure, gasping, riding myself through the final waves of orgasm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jane Mendoza

I’m not cold. I’m warm. Uncomfortably warm, actually.

I’m standing outside on the cliff where the grass and dirt are rolled back like a rug, the core of the mountain exposed. Wind whips around me, blowing my hair into my eyes. They sting.

The sky above me is filled with fog. No, it’s smoke—gray and billowing.

I look down. Instead of a stormy sea, there’s lava bubbling up from the center of the earth. It’s red and angry and active, eating at the mountain, trying to consume it. More and more lava spurts from beneath us, making the level rise. I watch it come closer and feel the heat wash over me. Pretty soon there will be no rock left to stand on.

The lava will swallow me, and I’ll become ash in its fiery waves.

A gasp. Smoke fills my throat, and I cough.

It was a dream, the lava climbing the cliffside. I’m not standing outside; I’m in my bedroom, half-asleep. The smoke is real. It fills my nostrils, my mouth. It coats my eyes in grit.

Beau is beside me, already pushing the covers off.

“Fuck,” he says, grabbing me by my wrist, dragging me out of bed.

I stumble behind him as he enters Paige’s room. Then he’s walking back out, carrying his niece in his arms. Thank God. Thank God she’s okay. I run ahead down the smoke-filled stairs to make sure nothing blocks their path.