24. Taking What I Want
TAKING WHAT I WANT
LUCY
We have an easy dinner at home the night of our anniversary. Rigatoni with heritage pork ragu that he ordered from Rolf and Daughters.
Afterward, he washes up, and I sit on the kitchen counter, which I do sometimes now because he doesn’t want me to cook, clean, or do anything strenuous, which is ridiculous because I’m fine now. Really fine. And my husband looks ridiculously delicious as he fills up the dishwasher.
Talk about being horny!
“Come here.” I hold my hand out because it’s time.
It’s way past time, and I’ve learned that he’s not going to make the first move. Oh no, he’s waiting for me to do it because that’s who Fox is now, not someone who grabs what he wants, the consequences be damned, but someone who wants to give me agency.
He turns from the sink and stalks up to me, predator to prey.
Who is who?
My heart hammers against my chest as he comes closer.
The kitchen counter is cold against my summer dress-covered skin.
Fox spreads my legs and stands in front of me. His hands scorch me as they slide up my thighs, rough and possessive.
“What do you want, Luce?” he asks softly.
“You,” I reply.
His mouth crashes onto mine, teeth scraping my bottom lip.
I moan.
His fingers hook into the lace of my panties and pull them down. I’m glad. I don’t need a lot of foreplay. I just need him inside me. I want the connection. I want the intimacy. I want my husband.
“Missed this pussy,” he growls against my neck, biting down hard enough to bruise.
“Then why haven’t you—”
He stops my words with a kiss. “I’m desperate for you. Desperate to feel how tight you get around me.”
I gasp as his thumb circles my clit, slow and cruel, dragging slickness in teasing spirals.
“I know you can’t remember us.” He shoves two fingers inside me without warning, curling them just right, and my back arches off the counter. “But your body remembers.”
I clench around his fingers, greedy and wet.
His cock is a thick, impatient weight against my thigh, straining against his jeans.
I rock my hips, shameless, grinding against his hand.
“It’s gonna be fast this first time, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear.
“Good!”
He chuckles.
I whimper as he unbuckles his belt, the sound of his zipper like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.
“I’m going to make you scream like you used to. Gonna fuck you so hard you remember.”
His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and my mouth waters.
I reach for him, but he slaps my hand away.
“No. You touch me, I’m going to come.” He grips my hips, yanking me to the edge of the counter.
And then he’s inside me.
I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. He’s bigger than I remember—or maybe I’ve just been empty too long.
“Lucy,” he groans, hips snapping forward. “Still so tight. Like you were made for me.”
He sets a punishing pace, each thrust punching the air from my lungs.
I’m so full, so owned.
“You remember now?” he snarls, fingers tangling in my hair, forcing me to look at him. “Remember how good I fuck you?”
“Y-yes,” I sob, because I can’t lie anymore, not about this.
His grin is feral. “Good.”
He pulls out of me, and I cry out in protest. He hauls me off the counter and flips me around and bends me over.
“I want to go deeper.”
My cheek scrapes the marble as Fox’s hand pushes my spine down.
He doesn’t ask me if I’m hurting. He knows I’m not. We’ve just been to the doctor, and like always, he was by my side, listening to my answers, asking new questions I didn’t even think of.
He bends over my back, his warm T-shirt-covered chest burning a brand between my shoulder blades, pushing into me.
I brace a palm on a crumpled paper towel, crinkling it with every desperate jolt of his hips.
Fox’s breathing goes ragged.
He slides out halfway and grinds his cock-head against my G-spot until I sob, the sound loud in my ears.
He likes that—I can tell from the satisfied grunt vibrating through his sternum.
My legs tremble.
Fox doesn’t slow; if anything, he doubles down, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust, until my vision starbursts on every downstroke.
“Mine,” he hisses, grabbing both my hips and yanking me back into every thrust. “You’re mine, Lucy. Say it.”
I bite my lip, hunger knotting inside me.
“Yours.”
I am his. Have been since he came into the diner late in the night, and I served him cassoulet.
His hands travel up, finding my wrists, pinning them behind my back, and he uses them like a handle, pistoning deeper.
One of his hands finds my clit, and he begins to thrum it like he always does in the way he knows that drives me to the brink and then off the edge.
He lets out a shuddering moan that starts low. “I fucking love you, Lucy.”
Those words undo me.
Orgasms usually creep up on me, a gentle tidal wave, but this one rips through me like a detonation, the kind that promises to level a city block.
I come hard enough to see static.
My scream is a strangled wail, boneless.
He thrusts into me through the aftershocks, not slowing for my writhing, my messy tears, my release.
He lets go of my wrists, and I know he’s getting close because his movements have become frantic. “You’re perfect, Luce.”
He leans down and bites my shoulder—his signature—and comes with a snarl, holding me tight. He stays like that, shuddering inside me. I can feel his pulse hammering through both our bodies.
Then Fox slides out, catching me when my knees turn useless.
He spins me around, lips swollen and eyes wild, and kisses me, deep and greedy, as if he can’t get enough oxygen unless he takes it straight from my lungs.
When he finally pulls back, I can taste the metallic tang of my own blood where he’s split my lip.
I laugh, dazed and punch-drunk, and he laughs, too, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You okay?” His thumb caresses the bruise blooming on my neck.
“More than okay.”
He kisses my forehead, nips my earlobe, and whispers. “Don’t ever forget what it’s like between us again.”
I nod, still trembling, the truth ringing in my bones. “Make me remember every day.”