Chapter Nine #2
He moves over me, knees bracketing my hips, the blunt head of his cock brushing my entrance. His hand shakes ever so slightly as he rolls the condom down his length, his hazel eyes holding mine like we’re signing a contract far more binding than a napkin agreement.
What does falling fast look like for Chase Morrison? Is it this? This desperate need to be inside me after only a week?
Panic tightens my throat.
Suddenly, this feels terrifyingly permanent. Not just friends with benefits. Not just sex. Not just weekends.
He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, caging me in. The scent of him pure sweat floods my senses. His forehead touches mine as he nudges my core.
“You ok?” he rasps, voice thick with need.
“Yes,” I gasp, wrapping my legs around his hips, pulling him close. “Please. Now.”
He doesn’t tease. One powerful thrust and he’s buried to the hilt. Filling me completely. Stretching me deliciously.
God, yes. This.
He stills for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged. “Fuck. Feels… incredible. Missed this. Missed you.”
He pulls back slowly, almost out, then slams home again. Deep. Hard. A moan rips from my chest and he sets a brutal, demanding pace, driving into me with possessive strokes that leave no doubt who I belong to right now.
His hands grip my hips, holding me steady, anchoring me as he takes what he needs. What we need.
My eyes open, staring past the magnificent flex of his shoulders as he moves above me to where the bedroom door stands open.
And I see it.
A dresser drawer, pulled open just enough. On the front, in Chase’s familiar, slightly messy scrawl: Weekend Occupancy Only.
Oh god.
My hips jerk beneath his, but the shock isn’t pleasure this time. It’s… panic?
Beyond the drawer, the bed is meticulously made. Perfect corners. Sheets tucked tight. And laid out neatly on the right side – my side? – is another flannel shirt, folded precisely, ready for me.
My gaze darts frantically to the kitchen counter. There, nestled beside the sink, sits the pie from Betty’s. The one I saw when I barreled in the door, enthusiasm taking over that led us to… well, this.
My parents’ faces flash before my eyes. Mother’s perfectly sculpted brows arching in icy disdain.
“A drawer, Piper? In some… mountain man’s hovel? Really? How… provincial.”
Chase slams into me, deep, drawing a ragged gasp I don’t entirely control. His hand slides under my back, lifting me, changing the angle, hitting a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
God, yes. He feels so good. So right.
“Mine,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Say it, Piper.”
“Yours!” I cry out as his angle shifts, swallowing the emotions I've been controlling all damn week.
“Remember this…” He grunts, pistoning faster, harder. “When you’re back in that fancy cage… remember how I make you feel…”
I do. I remember the sterile quiet of my penthouse bedroom. The emptiness. The quiet desperation. Here, there is only heat, friction.
Here, I feel alive.
“Harder!” I beg, meeting his thrusts, my nails scoring his back. “Please, Chase! More!”
He gives it to me. Every punishing stroke drives me higher.
My body coils tight again, pleasure building like a supernova. His rhythm falters, his thrusts growing erratic.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Look at me when we come. Together.”
Our gazes hold as the wave crashes over me. I scream his name, arching up against him as the spasms rip through me.
He follows me over the edge with a roar, burying himself deep, pulsing inside me. His body collapses onto mine, heavy and spent, our chests heaving against each other.
We lie tangled on the rug, sweaty and sated, the only sound our ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of my heart.
He presses a kiss to my sweaty temple. “Been waiting for that all week. You're perfect, you know that?”
Tears prick my eyes.
After a long moment, he shifts, rolling us so I’m tucked against his side, his arm a warm band across my waist. My legs feel like overcooked pasta. Blissfully useless.
“So,” he murmurs, fingers tracing idle patterns on my hip. “Somewhere in all of that you mentioned a terrible dinner?”
I groan, burying my face in his shoulder. “Don’t ruin the afterglow, Morrison. But yes, Mother paraded her latest suitor in front of me like prize breeding stock. He’s a hedge fund manager who thinks ‘roughing it’ is the Four Seasons losing his luggage.”
Chase snorts as his thumb brushes my cheek. “Bet you were magnificent.”
“I was horrifically polite.” I sigh. Because that's what I've always done. “Like my mother trained me. I smiled. I nodded. And then, I imagined stabbing him with a shrimp fork.”
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest.
“Next time, think about this instead.” His hand slides lower, cupping my ass possessively. “Think about me bending you over that fancy dining table.”
Heat flares low in my belly again. “Chase!”
“What?” He grins, dipping his fingers lower, tracing a slow, teasing path between my thighs. I’m still slick and his touch makes me gasp. “Too soon?”
My body answers for me, arching into his touch. “Never.”
He kisses me, slow and deep and promising.
“Just wait. If we're going again, I gotta pee,” he murmurs, reluctantly untangling himself. “Don’t move.”
He pads naked towards the bathroom, giving me a spectacular view of his perfect ass, those powerful shoulders and the defined back muscles tapering to a narrow waist.
God, he’s beautiful.
A giddy laugh bubbles up. This is so far outside the Whitman playbook it’s not even funny. Mother would faint. The thought only makes me happier.
I push myself up, wincing slightly at the delicious ache between my thighs. Might as well find that bathroom too. Maybe splash some water on my flushed sex face.
As Chase walks back into the living area, I tread down the hall and push open the bathroom door.
Then freeze.
Because beside the sink, sitting primly on a small dish, is a brand new toothbrush. Still in its packaging. Next to it, a travel-sized tube of my ridiculously expensive French moisturizer.
How did he even know? Did he ask Brooke? Stalk my Instagram bathroom selfies?
But as I move in further… it’s the mirror that stops my breath completely.
Stuck right in the center, written in Chase’s writing on a bright yellow sticky note:
Welcome Home, Piper.
The ‘i’ is dotted with a perfect little heart.
Tears blur my vision again.
This ridiculous, golden-retriever of a man. This thoughtful, overwhelming sweetness beneath the dirty talk and the powerful thrusts. He noticed. He cared. He wanted me to feel… welcome.
To feel… at home.