12. Matt #2
My tongue circled her mercilessly, her heels digging into my shoulder blades, my own head spinning.
I didn’t want to stop. God, she sounded so good, tasted like sin, and knowing it was her — Sienna — the woman who had driven me mad with a fucking yellow sundress and bare feet in first class, who had tested my patience, who had played with my son like it was the most natural thing in the world, who had told me countless times up until now that she wasn’t going to sleep with me again — it was too much. It was hell and it was heaven.
And I wanted to break her as many times as I physically could.
“Matt, please ?—”
Her broken whisper undid me more than any scream could have. Her voice was shattered as my tongue dragged over her clit with relentless precision, my fingers curling inside of her with every thrust, her muscles locking around me and her back arching like she was mid-exorcism.
God.
Her thighs trembled, not gently but violently, her fingers tightening so hard I was positive she was pulling strands out of my fucking head.
And then she broke .
I watched— fuck , I watched —as her muffled groan turned into a muffled shriek and then muffled sobs, as her back slammed down into the mattress, as her hips lifted helplessly against my tongue as wave after wave tore through her.
The taste of her flooded my mouth, sweet and acidic and her , and my eyes nearly rolled back in my head. I was ruined. More than I’d been when she’d lost it so beautifully on the flight when she’d just been a stranger.
Because now I knew.
Now I knew the stubborn set of her chin when she was irritated, knew the way she grinned at my son like he was the brightest star in the sky, knew the way she held her ground even when it cost her, knew the way she looked at me when she was desperate but too scared to admit it.
Worst of all, though, I knew those fingers digging into my scalp belonged to a woman who could absolutely be the death of me.
But all I wanted was to watch her break again and again and again, until her brain was nothing but TV static and her body was wrung out, until I was out of stamina and then some, until I’d lost my mind in her.
Her eyes were glassy and unfocused as they lowered to me, half-lidded and wrecked, makeup smeared and teeth marks in her hand. Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.
“Look at you,” I rasped, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh, letting my stubble rake over the sensitive skin. “One fucking orgasm and you’re already useless.”
She blinked dazedly at me, the words clearly taking a moment to process, before she laughed . Clear and bright as day, her lips pulling up in a genuine smile, not a smirk or a taunt, but a goddamn sunburst , cheeks swollen and pink and her hair half undone. “I hate you.”
The way she said it, the way she looked at me — it did things to me that I didn’t dare admit to myself, made my chest feel tight in a way I actively fought. “No,” I chuckled, nipping at her flesh before pushing myself up onto all fours, “you don’t.”
The slacks around my thighs suddenly felt like a prison as I worked my way back up her body.
I made quick work of them with absolutely no help from her clumsy fingers, despite her trying to get the fly down, and sighed in relief the moment my cock was free and pressing against her thigh before I was on her again.
I kissed her deep enough to let her taste herself on my tongue, swallowing down the needy sound she made as I angled myself to drag my length through the mess I’d made of her.
“Do you have any idea,” I growled against her mouth, digging my fingers into her thigh to hitch it higher on my hip, “what you do to me?”
Her hands cupped my cheeks, her nails raking against the sides of my neck, and I almost, almost , couldn’t bite back the strangled noise desperate to spill from my throat. “I?—”
“You don’t,” I interrupted. “You don’t. ”
I lined myself up, the tip of my cock catching on her opening, both of us shaking — her from the aftershocks, me from desperation. She was so goddamn wet, so warm , and I could feel her clamping down around nothing as I settled at the entrance.
I gripped her by the chin. “Look at me, sweetheart,” I ordered, waiting for her eyes to focus at least halfway. “I’m going to watch you come again. And again. And again.”
She swallowed, her throat working, words gone.
“And I want to feel every goddamn second of it,” I gritted out, holding her gaze unwaveringly as I shoved in with one relentless thrust, my vision blurring for half a second as I sank to the hilt.
She whimpered, beautifully, brokenly, her body stretching to take me, her walls so impossibly tight around every inch. Her legs locked around me as her nails pressed in harder like she’d simply die if I pulled out, her mouth opening in a pretty little O.
She didn’t dare look away from me.
I didn’t give her the chance to.
It started frantic. Our bodies crashed together with the same desperate hunger that had fueled us our first time on the flight, but this was different.
There was no partition to lower, no flight attendants to hide from, no performance, no pretending.
Just skin and sweat and the way her hands mapped every inch of me like she was memorizing the way we fit together.
I kept my word. I watched it all.
Every hitch of her breath, every desperate, fluttering squeeze of her thighs around my hips, every trembled and helpless noise she tried to swallow down for Zach’s sake.
I drank it all in like I’d never get enough, and when she came the third time, her whole body locking around me with a choked, “Matt,” I nearly lost myself right then from the way she looked at me.
Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like there was far more behind those eyes than either of us would admit to.
We slowed after that. Not because the hunger faded, but because I was desperate to savor this, savor her , wanted to feel the way she melted under my hands or the way her nails traced my shoulders between tremors, the way she whispered my name like it was something holy and blasphemous all at once.
She came twice more before I finally let go — once with my fingers twisting in her hair when I’d flipped her onto her stomach, and once with my mouth sealed over hers to swallow her sounds as she rode me.
And when I finally followed her over the edge, it wasn’t the frantic release I’d found weeks ago on the flight.
It was deeper, fuller , like every nerve in my body had been waiting for that exact moment, this exact woman, to finally fucking shatter.
We didn’t speak after. There were no cursed regrets or hesitant small talk. It was just tangled limbs and slowing breaths, her back pressed against my chest, my hand splayed possessively over her stomach. The silence stretched, comfortable in a way it had no right to be.
The realization hit me like a fucking freight train — I wasn’t ready for this to end. And God, that scared me more than anything else.
I didn’t do this. This wasn’t me .
But then she turned in my arms, her nose brushing against my collarbone, my fingers idly plucking the bobby pins from her hair, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure I cared if it scared me.
I didn’t even remember falling asleep.