Under Covers

twenty-one | paris

A/N: buckle up 😏

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twenty-one | paris

despite having myriad other forms of signage and traffic control, the entire city of Paris has not a single stop sign

JAKE

May 8th, 22:33 (GMT +2)
7 days until it happens

FOR ONCE, SHE listens.

Sort of.

It's less of a run than a twisting leap; when she's six feet or so from the ground, she vaults herself off the railing, ducking low to brace for impact as she smashes to the sidewalk.

Above us, the door bangs open. The thug sprays several crackling rounds into the stairwell from an assault rifle. I just manage to clear the last step, my thigh stinging from where she slashed into me with her knife, when a bullet shatters against the concrete a foot from my skull.

If by some fucking miracle we make it through in one piece, I will strangle her to death myself.

I squeeze the trigger once, then twice in the direction of a blurred body charging down the staircase before turning my back to our assailants and taking off into a hard sprint.

We race down the gum-grimed pavement for our lives. When we've managed to fall out of earshot, I drag Rayna by the roots of her hair into a dark, deserted alley offshooting the main road and slam her against the side of a mouldy brick building.

She sputters and claws, trying to keep quiet and scratch my eyes out simultaneously. I clamp a hand over her mouth and scold against her forehead, "Not another fucking word from you."

Adrenaline pounds through my blood so loud it rattles in my ears. Sweat slicks my hair, shines along her forehead.

She tries stomping my toes with the ball of her foot, but I gather her shirt-collar briskly in my fist and lift her clean off the ground so her legs flail helplessly beneath her. I heft her up with a straining arm until her face is level with mine. "I should bend you over my knee and give you a proper hiding for that bloody awful shit you just pulled back there," I threaten, menacingly low.

Her chest billowing from exertion, she snaps, "Go shove the whole grumpy-dad shtick up your ass and find yourself a sub on FetLife or something." The tip of her nose scalds mine. "I am not your baby girl to boss around whenever you fucking feel like it."

I don't know whose fault it is — probably hers, like everything else — but one moment, we're staring daggers at each other, and the next, our mouths are mashing harshly together in a violent, furious kiss.

Our teeth clash, tongues knotting and lips battling, thirsty and fierce. My hips dig into hers, keeping her crushed in place while she wrenches at my hair and gouges her angry nails down my shoulder-blades.

I grab a broad handful of her arse and squeeze, tight enough to bruise. Her legs cinch around my waist and even through layers of denim, I can feel how fucking hot she is between her thighs and it drives me absolutely fucking mad.

Our ragged breathing hangs lurid in the narrow alleyway. She clumps my t-shirt in her fists and lowers herself to the ground. Her fingers find my belt and an instant flare of heat spirals through my stomach.

I watch as she crouches so her lips are an inch from the front of my jeans. I bury my hand into the loose pile of her silky hair. My pulse stalls. Our eyes meet in the darkness – hers glint like some wild creature ready to pounce.