24. Wyatt
Wyatt
I shouldn't have started this.
The thought echoed through my skull even as I kissed her, even as her legs tightened around my waist, even as she whispered those two words that unraveled every shred of control I'd been clinging to.
I'd known the moment I put my mouth on her that I was crossing a line I couldn't uncross.
That tasting her would ruin me for anything else.
And I'd been right.
Feeling her fall apart on my tongue had been nothing short of devastating.
The way she'd gasped my name, fingers tangling desperately in my hair.
The trembling of her thighs beneath my hands.
The broken, beautiful sounds she made when she came—sounds I'd replay in my head for the rest of my goddamn life.
I'd wanted to make her feel good. Wanted to prove that she could trust me with her pleasure, her vulnerability, her softness.
But somewhere between the first tentative kiss and watching her shatter beneath my mouth, something had shifted.
Tilted. Became something I couldn't name and didn't want to examine.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She was leverage. A means to an end. The final move in a game of revenge I'd been playing since the moment those photos hit the internet.
But lying here with her wrapped around me, her heartbeat thrumming against my chest, her breath warm on my neck—I couldn't remember why destroying her father had seemed more important than this. Than her.
The realization terrified me.
Because I'd planned for one night. One calculated moment to seal the appearance of our relationship, to make the lie feel real enough that no one would question it. I'd told myself I could walk away after. That once wouldn't mean anything.
But the moment she'd looked up at me with those wide, trusting eyes and whispered my name like a prayer, I'd known the truth.
Once would never be enough. Not with her. Not after seeing her come undone, knowing I'd put that blissed-out look on her face. Not after feeling how perfectly she fit against me, how right it felt when she pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.
I wanted more. Wanted everything. Wanted to hear her scream my name again and again until she forgot there'd ever been a time before this, before us, before I'd ruined her for anyone else the way she'd ruined me.
And that made me dangerous.
To the plan. To myself. To her.
Because falling for Chastity Harrington wasn't part of the revenge.
It was the end of it.
I pulled back just enough to free myself from my jeans, breath ragged, pulse thundering in my ears. My cock ached, hard and desperate for her. I wrapped my hand around myself, stroking slowly as I looked down at her sprawled across my bed—flushed, trembling, still coming down from her orgasm.
She was fucking beautiful.
Hair spilled across my pillow. Lips swollen from my kisses. Chest heaving with each breath. My marks blooming dark and possessive along her throat, her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast.
Mine.
The word pulsed through me with dangerous intensity. My eyes traced every inch of exposed skin, cataloging each mark I'd left, each place I'd claimed her. The sight of her wearing my bruises, my teeth marks, made something primal and territorial surge through my chest.
Then I saw it.
A scar. Old. Jagged. Running along her left ribcage just below her breast—the kind of mark that didn't come from passion or play. The kind that came from violence.
I froze mid-stroke.
Ice flooded my veins, drowning the heat in an instant.
"What the fuck is this?" The growl tore from my throat before I could stop it. I released myself, fingers moving to trace the raised skin. "Who did this to you?"
Chastity sucked in a sharp breath, body going rigid beneath me. Her eyes widened—not with desire this time, but with something closer to panic.
"Wyatt—"
"Answer me." My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I couldn't pull it back. Couldn't soften the rage building behind my ribs. "Who fucking did this?"
She swallowed hard, looking away. "My ex. He… he got too rough."
The words punched through me like shattered glass.
"Did you want it that way?" I demanded. The question was brutal, the timing worse, but I needed to hear it. Needed to know if this was consensual play gone wrong or something darker. "Did you ask for this?"
"No." Her voice cracked. "He… Wyatt, please don't make me—"
"He hurt you?" I cut her off, fingers still hovering over the scar. "Your ex hurt you."
"It doesn't matter." She tried to pull away, but I held her in place.
"It does."
"It doesn't!" The snap in her voice startled us both. Her eyes blazed as she looked up at me. "This is fake, isn't it? It's to get at my dad for some reason—"
I kissed her. Hard. Brutal. Swallowing whatever poison she was about to spit. When I pulled back, I let my lips brush against hers as I spoke, voice low and dangerous. "Never bring up your father when my cock is about to fill your pussy. Unless you're calling me daddy."
Her breath hitched.
I grabbed her throat, forcing her to look at me. To see me. To understand that this moment, right now, had nothing to do with her father or revenge or any plan I'd ever made.
"Your ex," I said again, softer but no less intense. "He hurt you. Didn't he?"
Chastity swallowed beneath my palm. The movement rippled against my fingers.
Then she nodded.
The pieces clicked together like a broken bone setting wrong.
That documentary about the college girl who'd been attacked by her boyfriend—the way Chastity had gone so still, her face pale as she watched.
The way she'd flinched when I'd reached for her that night.
The scars I'd just found weren't just physical.
My chest caved in.
That was why she'd been so skittish at first. Why she'd tensed every time I moved too fast. Why she'd looked at me with those wide, wary eyes like I might turn on her at any second.
Fuck.
I loosened my grip on her throat, thumb brushing her pulse point. She was still trembling, but not from fear now. From need. From the way I'd touched her, kissed her, made her come apart.
"That's why you got emotional over that documentary," I said, voice rough. "Because you related to the victim."
Her breath hitched. She didn't deny it.
I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. "You know I would never hurt you."
She swallowed. Whispered, "I know."
Something in me cracked open.
We didn't have to do this. I could stop. Could pull back. Could pretend this never happened and go back to the plan.
But then she shifted beneath me, hips lifting just enough to brush against my cock, and my control shattered.
"Please," she breathed. "Don't feel sorry for me. I know what I want."
A growl tore from my throat. I grabbed her hips, yanked her against me, and slammed home in one brutal thrust.
She gasped, nails digging into my shoulders. So tight. So fucking perfect. I bottomed out with a groan, forehead dropping to hers as I fought for breath.
"Fuck, Chastity," I ground out. She was everything—heat and softness and need, her body gripping me like she never wanted to let go. I pulled back slowly, watching her face, then drove in again, deeper this time. Her back arched, a broken sound spilling from her lips.
I set a punishing rhythm, each snap of my hips dragging a gasp from her.
The couch creaked beneath us; the sound mixing with her breathless moans and the wet noise of my cock moving inside her.
She was so wet, so ready, her body taking me like we were made for this.
Like she'd been waiting for me to ruin her.
Her nails raked down my back, sharp and desperate, like she wanted to mark me the way I'd marked her.
The sting of it sent a jolt straight to my cock, and I groaned against her mouth, hips snapping harder.
I expected her to be hesitant, to need coaxing, to let me set the pace.
But Chastity met me thrust for thrust, her body moving with mine like we'd done this a hundred times before.
Fuck.
She wasn't just taking what I gave her—she was demanding more.
Her legs locked around my waist, heels digging into my ass as she pulled me deeper.
Every time I bottomed out, she made this sound—a broken gasp that turned into a moan, her voice rough with need.
I'd never heard anything like it. Never felt anything like the way her body gripped me, hot and tight and mine.
I grabbed her hip with one hand, the other tangling in her hair as I angled her just right. Her breath hitched when I hit that spot inside her, her nails digging in harder. The pain only made me fuck her rougher, my control slipping with every desperate sound she made.
"Wyatt—" My name spilled from her lips like a prayer, like she'd been waiting her whole life to say it just like that.
I captured her mouth again, swallowing her moans as I drove into her.
She kissed me back just as fiercely, her teeth nipping at my lower lip before soothing the sting with her tongue.
I broke the kiss to look at her—really look at her.
Her hair was a mess, her lips swollen, her skin flushed pink from the whiskers on my face.
She was gorgeous. And the way she was looking at me—like I was the only thing that existed, like she'd never been more sure of anything in her life—it gutted me.
Her hands slid down to my ass, her short nails biting into the muscle as she urged me faster.
I groaned, my rhythm faltering for just a second before I gave her what she wanted.
The couch protested beneath us; the sound lost beneath her gasps and the wet, obscene noises her body made every time I filled her.
"More," she demanded, her voice raw. "Harder."