Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 63

WANG

I should've stopped him.

He came too fast, too hard, after collapsing in my arms hours ago. But there's something in his eyes now, clearer than I've seen in days. Like the haze is finally breaking.

He's still panting, sweat beading at his hairline, but he looks alive.

Not just surviving.

Burning.

"Where are you going?" he asks when I shift off the bed, adjusting the blanket over his legs.

"To get the nurse," I lie. "You need rest. Fluids."

He grabs my wrist.

"No," he says. "Take me to your room."

I raise an eyebrow. You passed out.

"I'm done letting other people decide when I can feel good again."

His voice is low, but firm. There's something raw underneath it, not recklessness. Need. Not just for sex. For control. For something that feels like his.

And maybe, deep down, I want that too.

I scan the hallway outside the infirmary door. One nurse on night shift. The rest are sleeping. I've snuck out of worse places under heavier fire.

"Fine," I mutter. "If we get caught, I'm telling them you seduced me."

He grins, already pushing the blanket aside. You wouldn't be wrong.

We move through the hall like fugitives. Zhan's bare feet are quiet on the floor, mine even quieter. He's wearing the hospital gown, oversized, swamping his thinner frame, and somehow that makes it worse. Or better. Or both.

He leans against me as we move, pretending to stumble when someone's door creaks, so I catch him around the waist. He presses his mouth to my ear.

"You like the danger?"

"Shut up."

"You're hard."

I am.

By the time we slip into my room, I lock the door behind us and lean against it to catch my breath.

That's when he turns.

Zhan steps in front of me, close. Real close. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone like he's memorizing me now.

"I want to see you," he says.

"I'm right here."

"No," he breathes. "See you."

He pushes me gently until the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I sit, half from surprise, half from want.

Then he drops to his knees.

"Zhan..."

"Let me."

He lifts my shirt first, dragging it over my head, then leans in and presses his lips just below my ribs. A kiss. Then another. Then a slow trail down the line of my stomach.

I suck in a breath.

His hands slide over my thighs, spreading them. His mouth presses reverent kisses across the skin, tracing scars, muscle, and heat. He looks up at me, eyes dark, focused.

"You don't get it," he whispers. "You've been my fantasy. My anchor. My reason."

His fingers hook into the waistband of my pants. I let him take them down.

"I want to worship you," he says.

And he does.

Slowly, gently, with more hunger than I've ever seen in him. He takes his time, mouth, tongue, hands, like he's tasting salvation. Like touching me is a holy thing.