Chapter 36 #2
But he doesn't take me all the way inside yet.
Instead, he braces my back against the wall just outside the spray, adjusting his grip on my ass, and starts fucking me again.
Harder. Deeper. More possessive with each thrust. I can see the steam starting to fill the bathroom through my half-closed eyes, can feel the humidity building, but all I can focus on is him.
The way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me.
The way his muscles flex with each movement.
The way his cock drives into me like he's trying to reach my soul.
"Kade—oh god—I can't—"
"You can." His voice is rough, commanding. "Give me another one, Peaches. Come on my cock again."
I didn't think I could. Didn't think my body had anything left to give.
But he pounds into me relentlessly, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I'm climbing again, building toward something even more intense than before.
My head thuds back against the wall, my mouth open in a silent scream, my entire body tightening around him.
When I shatter this time, it's violent. My whole body convulses, clamping down on him so hard he groans, and I sob his name over and over like it's the only word I know.
He brings me into the shower before I can fully recover, hot water suddenly streaming over us.
It washes away the sweat, the blood, the evidence of what we've done.
He sets me carefully on my feet—my legs immediately protest, threatening to buckle beneath me—and he steadies me with gentle hands on my waist. His touch is so different now, so careful, like I'm something fragile he's afraid of breaking.
Then he pushes me back against the tile and drops to his knees in front of me.
"Kade, you don't have to—"
"Want to."
The two words are all the warning I get before his mouth is on me, tongue working my oversensitive clit while water cascades over his head.
I can see it running down his shoulders, plastering his dark hair to his skull, and the visual combined with the feeling makes my knees weak.
I thread my fingers through his wet hair—the strands silky with water—and hold on while he devours me like a man starved.
"Oh god—Kade—"
He groans against my pussy, the vibration making my hips jerk involuntarily. The sound is purely male satisfaction, like he loves having me fall apart on his tongue. And maybe he does. Maybe this is as good for him as it is for me.
I lose myself in the sensation completely.
I don't even realize when my hand tightens in his hair, pulling him harder against me.
Don't notice when I start moving my hips, riding his face shamelessly.
But he does. His hands grip my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he pulls me closer. Encourages the movement. Demands more.
"Come on my face, Peaches." The words are muffled against my skin but I hear them clearly enough. Feel them. "Let me taste you again."
Then he sucks my clit hard—so hard it's almost painful—and I explode.
The orgasm rips through me with unexpected violence, making my legs give out completely.
If he wasn't holding me up, I'd collapse.
I'm sobbing his name, tears mixing with the shower water on my cheeks, my whole body trembling as wave after wave crashes over me.
He stands slowly, kissing his way up my body as he rises.
When he reaches his full height, he lifts me again like I weigh nothing at all, pinning me against a different section of wall with his body.
The tile here is cooler against my overheated skin, the contrast making me gasp.
His cock slides into me again—I'm so wet, so ready despite the oversensitivity, that he fills me in one smooth thrust.
We fuck under the spray, water making everything slick and perfect and somehow more intense. His thrusts are deep, claiming, possessive—each one harder than the last. Each one driving me higher despite my body's protests that it can't possibly take more.
He's like a man possessed. Like he's trying to fuck his way into my permanent memory. Like he wants to make sure I never forget this, never forget him, never forget what it feels like to be his.
This isn't like the other times we've been together.
There's something almost desperate in the way he moves, something fierce and claiming that goes beyond simple desire.
It's almost like the closer we get to our inevitable end, the more possessive he becomes.
Like he needs to mark me as his while he still can.
Like he's trying to brand himself onto my soul before time runs out.
And the funny thing—the heartbreaking, beautiful, terrifying thing—is that I am his in all the ways that matter. He's in my veins now. Under my skin. Inside my heart. I don't want to leave him. I don't know how I possibly could.
When his rhythm starts to break apart—thrusts becoming wild and uncoordinated, his careful control slipping—I can tell he's close.
"Fuck, Peaches, I can't hold on—"
"Let go, Kade." My voice is hoarse from screaming, barely recognizable. "Fill me up, please—"
The begging comes easy, natural, necessary. I need him to lose control. Need him to give me everything. Need to feel him come apart inside me the way I've come apart around him.
He buries his face in my neck, his whole body going tense, and growls one word against my skin—possessive and claiming and absolutely final.
"Mine."
Then he's coming inside me, hot and deep and endless.
I feel every pulse, every throb, every moment of his release as my own body clenches around him reflexively.
My inner muscles milk him, drawing everything out, taking everything he has to give.
His body shudders against mine, pressing me harder into the wall, and I hold him through it.
Hold him while he falls apart. Hold him while he puts himself back together.
We stay like that for a long moment, water streaming over us while we both struggle to remember how to breathe.
His heart pounds against my chest—rapid and strong—matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
I can feel it through his skin, can feel the life in him, and it makes something in my chest ache with feelings I can't name and don't dare examine.
Finally—after what could be seconds or hours—he lifts his head and kisses me. Slow. Deep. Thorough. Claiming me all over again with just his mouth. It's different from the desperate kisses during sex. This one is almost tender. Almost loving. It tastes like promise and goodbye all at once.
When he finally pulls back, his dark eyes meet mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left.
"You okay?"
I nod, unable to form actual words yet. My voice is gone, my thoughts scattered, my body feeling like liquid—boneless and sated and completely wrecked in the very best way. I'm better than okay. I'm transformed.
He sets me carefully on my feet, hands steadying me when I wobble dangerously. My legs feel like they've forgotten their basic function. When he's sure I won't collapse, he reaches for the body wash.
What happens next unmakes me in a completely different way.
He washes me. Carefully. Gently. His rough hands are impossibly soft as they map every inch of my body with soapy fingers.
He takes his time, paying attention to every curve, every hollow.
Places that are purely functional get the same reverent treatment as the places he was claiming minutes ago.
He washes between my legs with such gentle care that tears prick my eyes.
This intimacy is almost harder to take than the sex.
This tenderness feels more dangerous than the passion.
Then he washes my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with such perfect pressure that I practically purr against his chest. He works the shampoo through to the ends, careful not to tangle the strands, then rinses it out.
The gesture is so domestic, so caring, so utterly different from anything I've ever experienced and I have to close my eyes against the sting of tears.
When he's done turning me into a pampered mess, I return the favor.
I wash him slowly, learning the geography of his body through touch.
I trace the lines of his tattoos with soapy fingers, mapping the ink that tells stories I'm only beginning to understand.
I wash the grease from under his nails—evidence of his work on my car—and the sweat from his skin.
I learn the planes of his back, the curve of his shoulders, the strength in his arms.
This feels more intimate than anything we've done. More real. More terrifying.