Chapter 40 #5
He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, just pounded into me with a steady, punishing rhythm. Every time I thought I’d reached my limit, he shifted, angled, and found a way to enhance the pleasure.
I could hear myself begging, “Please, please, don’t stop,” and it made him growl, a feral sound, his teeth scraping over my ear.
He let go of my throat only to grab my wrist, pinning it behind my back, arching me up until the only thing holding me together was his body wrapped around mine.
He knew exactly how to hurt, but he also knew how to bring pleasure.
All his restraint was gone. He was raw and wild, teeth bared, sweat dripping down to pool in the small of my back.
I felt his fingers slip between my legs, finding my clit and circling it with perfect, ruthless precision. It sent a jolt up my spine, shooting straight to the place inside me that had always ached for him.
He drew it out, teasing and punishing, until I shattered, coming so hard I sob-screamed into the pillow, my body bucking against his hand, against the full, relentless drive of him inside me.
The world dissolved. I didn’t know where he ended, and I began. All of me was sensation, strung out along a wire of pleasure so taut it seemed impossible it wouldn’t snap.
He pulled me back, flipping me onto my back with a force that left my ears ringing. He wanted to see my face when he came undone.
His palm landed hard on the mattress next to my head, the other pinning my thigh open as he thrust back into me with a hunger that bordered on violence.
Sweat dripped from his brow onto my cheek, and the look in his eyes was wild, unmasked, and desperate, like a man clawing his way out of a burning building.
I met him thrust for thrust, arching into every movement, wanting to feel every ounce of him, wanting him to know that he could never scare me away again.
He grunted, low, burying his face in my neck as if he could crawl inside my skin. I clung to his shoulders, nails digging in, and he hissed at the sting, then fucked me even harder, punishing and sweet.
I watched his face, watched the way he tried to hold himself together, and I wanted to watch him break.
He went faster, brutal and perfect, the sound of it filling the room. My legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in place. I could feel him getting close, the way his rhythm faltered and the muscles in his back bunched tight under my hands.
He braced himself, slammed into me, and I felt him pulse, hot and deep, filling me up.
He groaned, a raw, guttural sound, and the feeling of him losing control—after all these years of cold, tightly wound discipline—made my body tingle with heat and pleasure.
The sensation of his come flooding me, so bare, so raw, sent a shock through my chest so violent I thought I’d black out.
He didn’t stop thrusting, even as he came, grinding deep and hard until he’d wrung every last drop out of himself, and only then did he collapse on top of me, boneless and shaking, our bodies fusing with sweat and the sticky aftermath of what we’d done.
He stayed there, forehead pressed to my collarbone, breath coming in ragged shudders.
For a minute, I thought he’d passed out, but then he kissed my skin, slow and tender, as if apologizing to every cell he’d bruised.
I held him, arms and legs tangled, feeling the tremor in his body echo back into mine.
We were two animals, spent and sated, gods of our own small, ruined world.
Eventually, he rolled off, pulling me with him, so I was cradled in his arms, my head against his heart. I could see him softening. The slow, reluctant withdrawal, and the sensation of his seed leaking out onto my thighs.
It was filthy, but I loved it, loved that it was proof of what we’d done.
When he finally tried to speak, the words caught in his throat. “I…” He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. “Fuck. You make me wild, Amelia. Every fucking time.”
I didn’t know what to say. Maybe there was nothing to say, not when our bodies had already confessed everything that mattered.
He shifted behind me, gathering me closer, his palm splayed over my belly, thumb stroking the skin just above my navel.
I could feel his heartbeat against my spine, still wild, still not believing any of this was real. The sheets were tangled and damp beneath us, the room a vault for the echo of our cries.
I traced lazy circles over the back of his hand, feeling the small ridges of past scars, the places where he’d been broken and put back together, and wondered at the miracle of him still choosing this, choosing me.
Caiden groaned and pulled me tighter, burying his face in my hair. “I want to stay here forever,” he muttered, and for a second, I believed it.
I drifted, half-asleep in the afterglow, until the air chilled enough that he had to get up and find the scratchy motel blanket. He pulled it over us, his arms hitching around my waist, lips brushing the back of my neck in slow, penitent kisses.
I smiled, eyes closed, letting the heat of his breath and the ache between my thighs remind me I was alive.
For the first time since my mother died, I felt whole. Not healed, but whole, like every broken piece had finally taken its seat at the table.