Chapter 18
Jo-Leigh
“You’ve got two seconds to make a choice. Fight me or feel me.”
Every instinct I’ve relied on since I came to Baton Rouge screams to fight. To run. To protect myself like I always have. But something in the way he’s looking at me makes it hard to breathe, let alone think. I’m not used to being wanted like this.
His hands are still on me, not pushing or pulling. Just there. And I can feel it in every nerve of my body. He means it. If I say no, he’ll walk away. Maybe not happily, maybe not for long but he’ll respect it.
But if I say yes…
My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s begging for him.
I don’t speak. I don’t have to.
Instead, I lift my hand and slide it behind his neck. My fingers thread through the short hairs there as I tug him down to me. His mouth is on mine before I can breathe. And then there’s no space. No logic. No fear. Just heat. Hands. Hunger.
He kisses like he owns me, and I let him. I need him to.
The wall is at my back. The counter bites into my thighs. And he’s right there pressed against me like he’s trying to crawl under my skin. His knee wedges between mine, rough denim sliding against sensitive skin as my legs part without question, instinct ruling over doubt.
He cages me in. Anchors me. And I don’t want to escape. I want to burn. He growls into the kiss and the sound punches straight through my chest, shooting lightning down to where I already ache. I whimper against his mouth, but it only makes him wilder.
One hand grips my jaw, tilting my head as his tongue claims me all over again.
The other snakes up under my shirt and rough fingers against the soft slope of my waist, calloused and possessive and unrelenting.
When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I gasp, and he takes the sound like a gift, swallowing it whole.
“You feel that?” he rasps against my mouth, voice thick with want. “That shaking in your thighs? That heat between them? That’s all for me.”
“Yes.”
“Say it,” he growls, dragging his mouth along my jaw. “Say who you want.”
“You,” I breathe. “God—you.”
His hips grind into me, thick and demanding, and I feel every hard inch through his clothes. And suddenly, even that feels like too much fabric. Too much in the way.
“Please,” I beg.
“I’m not going slow,” he warns, voice like thunder in my ear. “You stop me now, or not at all.”
His mouth is back on mine, bruising and possessive, like he wants to leave a mark no one else can erase.
His hands roam—under my shirt, down my hips, up the backs of my thighs.
Rough palms dragging, clutching, controlling.
I moan as he yanks me closer to the edge of the counter, my body arching into him, needing more. I want to feel him. All of him.
He nips at my bottom lip, then growls against my mouth. “You like being handled like this, don’t you?”
I nod, breathless. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I like it. I like the way you touch me.”
He grunts, clearly satisfied, and presses harder between my thighs, grinding in a rhythm that makes my toes curl. My hands claw at his shoulders, dragging him even closer.
“You’re soaked through,” he mutters, lips brushing my throat. “Been walking around like this? Needing it?” His voice is nothing but grit and heat. “You wanted me to lose control, didn’t you?”
I should be embarrassed. Ashamed. But all I feel is want.
Then his fingers slip beneath the waistband of my panties. One slow stroke against my slick heat, and I jolt, hips bucking forward. When he slides the finger inside, I gasp.
His breath catches.
“Wait.” He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, searching. “Jesus. You’re?—”
I nod, barely. “I haven’t… not before.”
His entire body stills. That dangerous, dominant energy coils back, not gone but tempered. Leashed.
“You mean—” His voice is low, hoarse. “You’ve never?”
I shake my head. “No one’s ever… I wanted it to be you.”
He swears under his breath, something sharp and broken. Then he cups my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. His eyes are still wild, but there’s something softer now behind them. Something aching.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want you to stop.”
He lets out a shaky laugh.
“Fuck, bee. I’m not stopping. Not unless you tell me to. But I’m not taking you like this. Not when this is your first.”
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in him. How the storm behind his eyes turns reverent, like I’ve given him something sacred.
“You deserve better than being fucked on a counter for your first time,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead. “You deserve to be touched like you matter. Like you’re more than just a fuck.”
“I want you.”
“You have me,” he says, voice raw. “But tonight I’m going to show you what it means to be wanted.”
Then he lifts me from the counter, cradling me like I’m something breakable and carries me toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind us, and for a moment, he just holds me. My legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, heart thundering against his chest.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low, thumb brushing my cheek.
I nod, too full of feeling to speak. He sets me down gently on the bed like I’m something precious.
He pulls back, watching me. “Last chance. You say the word, I stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
That tight line in his jaw loosens just a little. He exhales, his fingers moving to the hem of my shirt.
“I’m going to take my time,” he murmurs, “and I’m going to learn every inch of you.”
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts my shirt over my head, revealing me inch by inch like he’s unwrapping a gift he doesn’t believe he deserves. His eyes roam, greedy but reverent, and when he finally speaks, it’s a growl softened by awe.
“Beautiful.”
His hands move like heat, trailing over my skin with a tenderness I never expected. No rough grabs, no rushed moves. Just a steady exploration that builds a different kind of tension—hotter, deeper. He kisses my shoulder, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. Every press of his lips is a claim.
When he finally cups my breasts, his thumbs grazing sensitive peaks, I arch into him with a soft gasp.
“You tell me if anything feels wrong,” he says, breath warm against my skin. “If I go too fast?—”
“I’ll tell you,” I whisper. “But please don’t stop.”
His mouth replaces his hand, lips and tongue working slowly, worshipfully, until I’m trembling. By the time he undresses me fully, I’m bare in more ways than one—exposed, open, and utterly his.
He undresses himself next, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to startle me. But there’s heat in his eyes—barely leashed hunger. His cock is thick and hard, and when I stare, he groans.
“Don’t look at me like that, baby. I’m trying to go slow.”
“I want all of you,” I say, voice shaking with need. “Even if it hurts.”
He leans down, kissing me gently. “It shouldn’t hurt. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”
His hand slips between my thighs again, stroking gently, opening me. When one finger slides inside, he watches every reaction—every flutter of my lashes, every gasp, every shiver. He adds another, working me open slowly, carefully, until I’m panting, hips rising to meet him.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispers, voice like velvet and smoke. “So fucking perfect.”
When he finally settles between my thighs, the weight of him pressing against me, he stills.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” I reach for him. “Please.”
He slides in slow, inch by inch, groaning like the feel of me is too much.
“God, baby… You’re so tight—so fucking sweet. Mine.”
The stretch burns, but it’s not pain. It’s the pressure of being filled for the first time, of giving him something no one else has had.
He keeps whispering to me as he moves, soft curses, promises, reverent praise.
The possessiveness doesn’t disappear. It just evolves, turning into something deeper.
Something that says I’ll never let you go.
He rocks into me with aching slowness, every thrust hitting deep, his forehead pressed to mine.
“You feel what I feel?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel how deep this goes?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing, grounding us both as he moves. And when I finally break apart, coming around him with a cry, he follows with a groan of my name.
He doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t move.
Just holds me after.
Because this wasn’t just heat.
It wasn’t just firsts.
It was a beginning.
Our beginning.
The morning light slips through the blinds, golden and quiet, warming the sheets tangled around our bodies. I blink awake slowly, muscles sore in the best way, heart still full from everything he gave me last night.
He’s still here.
Still wrapped around me like he never plans to let go.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, steady and solid. One of his arms is curled around my waist, palm splayed low on my belly. His other hand is buried in my hair, fingers twitching slightly in sleep, like even unconscious, he needs to be touching me.
I shift just enough to look up at him.
He’s already watching me.
Eyes heavy-lidded, mouth soft with sleep. There’s stubble along his jaw, darker than yesterday, and when I move again, he pulls me tighter with a low, sleepy sound that’s almost a groan.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rough and deep and wrecked.
My stomach flips. “Hi.”
He smiles, slow and crooked, thumb brushing over my hip. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.”
“Good.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Because I’ve been dying to kiss you again.”
“You’ve been awake that long?”
“Long enough to remember every sound you made when I was inside you.” He smirks. “And every damn thing I plan to do again.”
My breath catches.
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine, slow and teasing.
“But first…” His mouth meets mine, soft and lazy and dangerous. Because even half-asleep, he kisses like he means it. Like I’m his drug and he hasn’t had a fix in hours.