DELETED SCENE - BOOK II

(POV - HOYT)

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus scene contains explicit sexual content, obsession, dream-logic consent, and emotional destruction. It is not soft. It is not safe.

It is very, very Hoyt.

—

I know it’s a dream the second I see her.

The room is wrong—too still, too quiet. Like the air is holding its breath.

She’s leaning against the kitchen counter, barefoot, her hair loose, the sunrise bleeding through the window and turning her skin to gold. She sips from a chipped mug like this is our life. Our home. Like she never left.

Like she never destroyed me.

The air shifts when I take a step toward her.

She moves too—slow and silent—like gravity pulled her to me. Like we were always meant to collide again.

Her body stops just shy of mine. I feel the heat of her skin. The hum in the air. The violet prism at her throat glows low and steady—soft as breath, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“I don’t care if it kills me,” I growl, voice low and cracking. “Just let me touch you.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. She just wraps her arms around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I brace for pain.

But there’s no burn. Not in my chest. Not in my skin. Not in the place where she told me she was going back to him.

“You’re not real,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer. She just threads her fingers into my hair and gives one sharp tug—just enough to make my knees wobble. And then, smiling like sin and salvation:

“On your knees, cowboy.”

I lift her onto the kitchen counter—the same one still dusted with flour and sticky from syrup. She wanted pancakes this morning.

She smells like syrup and strawberries and something sweeter underneath. I’m starving—and not for food.

Eat her. That’s all I can think about. I’d tear her apart with my teeth if she asked.

Wait.

Is she wearing that gold dress?

The one from the party?

I don’t know how I missed it—maybe because my hands are already sliding over her hips, up her waist, mapping her again like I never got the chance to forget.

That dress. The one that said fuck me hard without making a sound. The one that ruined me.

I look up. Her prism glows against her chest—violet, alive, pulsing like it’s trying to speak. Trying to warn us.

But she doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t move.

She just looks at me like she already knows what I’m going to do.

Like she wants me to decide how far I’ll fall.

I press my mouth to her neck, testing.

Still no fire. Just her.

I drop, sinking to my knees.

Not because I’m weak.

Because I’d fall for her again, a thousand times, and then crawl back for more.

My hands slide under her dress, thumbs grazing the soft skin of her thighs. I nudge them apart and kiss the inside like I’ve been waiting lifetimes. I press my lips to her clit—testing.

Still no fire. Just her.

She’s soaked—dripping, open, mine.

I bury my face in her pussy like I’ve been starved for years, like I’m trying to crawl inside her and never come back out.

She moans my name, hips bucking into my mouth. I grip her thighs tighter, nose deep, tongue working her like she’s the only god I’ve ever prayed to.

I worship her until her thighs tremble around my head, her body shakes, and she cries out into the silence.

Like she’s holy.

And I’ve already been damned.

She’s gasping when I finally rise.

I’m not gentle.

I grab her legs and spread her wider. The dress is gone. I didn’t take it off. It just isn’t there anymore.

There’s only skin now. Just skin and heat and the prism between her breasts, glowing like it wants to stop us—but it can’t.

“I need your cock,” she breathes, wild and wrecked. “I need to feel you. Now.”

It almost undoes me.

Because when she begs like that—I’d give her anything.

My soul. My name. Every drop inside me.

When I slide into her, I don’t move.

I just stay there.

Buried.

Shaking.

Wrecked.

“Hoyt—what are you doing?”

Her voice is barely a whisper.

I smile. Crooked. Soft. Wrong.

“Don’t worry,” I murmur. “It won’t hurt.”

She cups my face, kisses me like she wants me to believe that.

And I whisper the truth against her lips:

“Not unless you want it to.”

Then I thrust into her with everything I’ve been holding back.

Not slow. Not sweet.

But like a man reclaiming what was stolen.

“You’re mine,” I choke. “Say it.”

She moans—wrecked, breathless—“Yours. Hoyt—yours.”

And I snap.

Her prism glows brighter.

I fuck her harder. Daring it to stop me.

“Let the curse take me—I’m not pulling out.”

She gasps. Claws at my back. Pulls me deeper.

“What are you doing?” she cries again.

I don’t answer right away.

I just look down at her—breathing hard, eyes wild—and press my mouth to her ear.

“Taking back what’s mine.”

Then I move again.

Slow—agonizingly slow—because I want to feel everything.

Every gasp. Every curse. Every shattered second between us.

My fingers bruise her hips, grounding me to her body, to the dream I never want to end.

“You feel real,” I rasp.

She arches into me. Begging.

I fuck her like she ruined me.

Like I’ve missed the feel of her pussy squeezing me tight, milking me like she never planned to let go. Like I’ll carve my name into her from the inside out.

I drive her into the counter—her ass slaps hard, sweat slicking her skin and mine.

She cries out again, grabs the back of my neck, and says it—

“You feel so fucking good.”

“Then take it,” I growl. “Take all of it.”

I take everything.

Every moan. Every breath. Every part of her she never gave me again after that night in the pool.

Her legs lock tighter around me. I thrust harder.

She claws at my back.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

And that’s what breaks me.

“We both know you’re not a good girl,” I snarl, pounding into her like I need to erase the distance she created. “I knew the second you swallowed my cum in the shower—every single drop—like you were proud of it.”

She gasps—but she doesn’t stop me. She clutches at my shoulders. Pulls me deeper.

“But I still felt something that night,” I breathe. “Still thought—maybe…”

I grip her jaw. Press my forehead to hers. My voice cracks on the truth I can’t take back:

“You might not be my good girl.”

“You might not be mine at all.”

“But you were all that I wanted.”

I finish inside her with a sound I don’t recognize. A groan. A cry. A prayer.

And for one impossible moment, everything feels right again.

Her hands are in my hair. Her legs still locked around me. My face buried in her throat.

“Don’t let me wake up,” I whisper. “Please.”

But I do.

I wake up choking. Hard. Sweating. Sheets soaked.

And for one wild second, I scan the room, half-believing she’s real.

The room is cold. Empty. Silent.

The ache between my legs is unbearable.

I press both hands to my face. Try to forget. Try not to whisper her name.

I fail.

“Fucking nightmare.”