15. Ivy
IVY
I n the cabin, there's no noise to distract me, no outside pressure to worry about. The fire in the hearth has softened to a gentle flicker, and the soft lamplight stretches shadows across the knotty pine walls, warm and still. Ethan’s sitting on the couch, one arm resting along the back, legs spread, relaxed in a way that makes him look untouchable.
But I know better. I know the restraint behind that posture, the coiled tension he wears like a second skin.
He hasn’t said much since I asked him to stay. No questions. No expectations. Just a soft nod and that quiet steadiness I’ve come to rely on more than I should.
And I think that’s what undoes me.
He doesn’t push. He waits, the way he always has.
And it hits me, sharp and certain in my chest. He’s never tried to force his way in.
He’s always lingered at the edge, quiet and steady, hoping I would come to him on my own.
There’s a possessiveness in him, yes, but it never scorches.
It doesn’t suffocate or demand. It protects.
Even when he’s distant, even when his silence cuts sharper than words ever could, he still respects the space I need to breathe.
And suddenly, I don’t want to wait anymore.
I cross the room slowly, barefoot, heart in my throat, each step a quiet confession I don’t know how to speak out loud. He watches me, but he doesn’t move. His gaze stays fixed on me—steady, unreadable, patient.
When I reach him, I don’t speak. I just kneel between his knees and rest my palms on his thighs.
His breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn’t touch me.
I look up at him, into those dark, storm-scarred eyes, and for a moment I forget what it means to be afraid.
Then I reach for the waistband of his jeans.
He lets me.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop me, doesn’t say a word.
His belt comes undone easily. I pull the button free, slide the zipper down, and then he lifts his hips, wordless, helping me draw his jeans and boxers down his thighs in one slow, deliberate movement.
He’s already hard—thick and flushed, his cock heavy in my hand, the skin hot and smooth. I wrap my fingers around him and hear the low, gravel-wrapped sound he makes, that quiet groan pulled from the back of his throat like he’s been holding it in.
When I lean forward and lick the head—just once, slow and teasing—his hips shift, a barely-there roll toward my mouth.
But still, he doesn’t rush me.
That’s what makes my chest ache.
Because I can feel how tightly he’s holding himself back, letting me set the pace, letting me take what I need—and I don’t know if anyone’s ever done that for me.
I drag my tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and unhurried, before I take him into my mouth. He’s thick and hot, and the stretch makes my jaw ache, but I don’t stop. I want to feel him fill me, want to hear him lose that composure he clings to so tightly.
I take more, slide down farther, use my tongue and lips and hands until his breath catches and his fingers flex against the couch cushions.
“Fuck, Ivy.” His voice is rough. “You don’t have to?—”
I pull back just enough to murmur, “I want to,” before sliding him back in.
And after that, he doesn’t speak.
He just breathes, deeply and unevenly, as I work him with my mouth—sucking, stroking, letting my fingers trail along the base, cupping him gently, then sliding lower until I feel him twitch.
He doesn’t last long. He’s too tense, too wound up, and when I glance up and meet his eyes, the look on his face ruins me.
It’s not just lust or heat but a raw, reverent adoration that is explicit in its unguardedness.
His hands are still in my hair when I lift my head.
His chest is rising and falling hard beneath me, his abs flexing under the weight of each breath, and there’s this raw, beautiful look in his eyes that makes me ache everywhere.
He’s still hard—maybe harder than before—and his cock glistens, flushed and twitching, resting against his stomach.
I shift into his lap before I can stop myself, legs spreading over his thighs as my dress hikes up past my hips. I feel the press of him through both my clothes, thick and hard beneath me, and something in his eyes snaps.
“Ivy,” he says, voice rough and tight, already dark with warning. His hands settle on my waist.
I lean in and kiss him, not gently. My lips crash into his, open and hungry, my tongue sliding against his as if I’ve needed this for years. He groans into my mouth, low and guttural, and the sound goes straight through me.
His hands are everywhere now, dragging down my spine, gripping the backs of my thighs, pulling me tighter against him until I feel the full length of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of my panties.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs into the kiss, voice shredded with need.
“Yes,” I breathe, lips brushing his. “I do. I want you. Now.”
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through my folds. The sound is wet and eager, my breath catching as he finds my entrance and pauses, barely holding himself back.
He doesn’t take my panties off, just bunches the fabric to a side before he grabs my ass with both hands and yanks me flush, grinding me down until the blunt head of his cock catches against my soaked entrance.
The sound that escapes him is a broken groan, thick with hunger, like the effort of holding back might tear him in two.
Then he drives up into me in one rough, ruthless push, and my cry splits the silence, my lips parted, eyes blown wide like I’ve been shocked into pleasure.
He moves again, deeper this time, dragging me down with him as if my body belongs to him entirely.
Each movement is unrestrained, raw, a deep press that rocks me open and makes my spine arch like he’s knocked the air from my lungs.
My panties are still pushed to the side, a soaked little scrap bunched at the crease of my thigh, and it only makes the friction filthier.
The wet slap of flesh against flesh, the slick slide of his cock plunging inside me, echoes off the cabin walls.
“Good girl,” he growls, breath hot against my throat, his voice frayed at the edges. “Look at you, taking it like you were made for this. So fucking deep already.”
I whimper, hips rolling down to meet every punishing push.
My fingers claw into his shoulders, trying to keep up with the pace he’s setting.
It’s rough, messy, loud. The slap of our bodies and my own moans is all I can hear, joined by the filthy drag of his cock inside me, the hot brush of his breath against my neck.
His fingers dig into my ass as he lifts me and slams me back down, over and over, using me the way I begged him to. Each thrust hits deep, making my thighs shake and my lips part wider with every desperate moan.
“You wanted this,” he pants, dragging his mouth across my collarbone, licking the sweat from my skin. “You got on your knees like a good girl, sucked me off with those pretty lips, and now look at you. Eyes wide, mouth open, taking every inch of me.”
I can’t even answer. My tongue feels heavy, useless, as the pressure builds and burns low in my belly. All I can do is hold on. He thrusts again, harder, and my whole body arches, mouth open in a silent scream as I start to come apart on top of him.
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
His hands slide up my sides, rough and possessive, until he’s got one on my breast, fingers pinching my nipple until I cry out again.
“You feel how fucking tight your pussy is around me? You’re milking my cock, Ivy.”
I can’t even answer. All I can do is move, grinding down as he thrusts up, my body meeting his in a brutal rhythm that has my legs shaking.
He leans forward suddenly, mouth closing over my nipple, biting just hard enough to make me clench around him.
“Say it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Say this pussy’s mine.”
“It’s yours,” I gasp. “All yours.”
“Say you were made for this cock.”
“I was. Ethan—fuck—I was made for you.”
He groans like I just gave him his religion.
“Yeah, you were,” he snarls. “Look at you. Look at how you ride me. Look at how your cunt grips me. You need it, don’t you?”
I nod wildly, so close I can barely form words.
“I need it. I need you. Please?—”
He slaps my ass hard, making me cry out again.
“Come for me.”
I break as my orgasm hits like a wave, fast and brutal, pleasure flooding every inch of me as I cry out, clenching around him, shaking in his arms.
He doesn’t stop, nor slow down.
He stands, still inside me, gripping my thighs as he lifts me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my face buried in his neck as he carries me across the cabin, his cock buried so deeply, I can barely breathe.
He reaches the kitchen counter and bends me over it in one smooth motion.
I’m still gasping when he jerks me onto his thick cock from behind.
“Stay there,” he growls. “Don’t move. I want to watch this pussy take everything I give it.”
I brace myself against the cool wood as he fucks me hard, hands gripping my hips, his cock pistoning in and out of me with wet, greedy thrusts.
“You like being used like this?” he snarls. “You like it when I bend you over and fuck you like I don’t care who hears you scream?”
“Yes. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t. Not until I’ve filled you again. Not until you can’t walk without feeling me drip out of you.”
I moan, my body already tipping into a second orgasm faster than I thought possible.
“I’m gonna come again,” I cry. “Ethan, I?—”
“Do it. Fucking come all over me.”
He slaps my ass, then pulls me flush against him as I come again, harder this time, body convulsing as I collapse against the counter.
A gush of warmth leaves me, and I come again as I clench around his cock, my juices coating it.
He groans deeply behind me, grabs me by the hair, and pulls me back to whisper into my ear.
“You’re gonna take every drop, sweetheart. Every last bit of it.”
Then he buries himself deep and spills inside me with a guttural sound, pulsing hot and thick until he’s empty.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing, shaking, sweat cooling on our skin.
Then he kisses the back of my neck. We don’t speak much afterward, but he wraps me in a blanket and we walk to the bedroom.
The fire has burned down to a soft glow, casting amber light along the cabin walls.
The air has cooled just enough to pull the blanket higher around my shoulders.
Ethan lies beside me, one arm beneath his head, the other resting on my hip like he is still afraid I might vanish if he lets go.
His breathing is deep and even. He shifts behind me, pulling me closer, his arm firm around my waist. I don’t resist. I let him hold me, let my body rest against his, even as my mind spirals.
I would love to share the peace he probably feels, to think this is how it should be, two people in love and a baby to show for it.
But it is so much more than that, and not in the good ways.
I stare at the shadows flickering along the wooden beams of the ceiling as Ethan drifts into sleep, listening to the soft sounds of the night, trying to quiet the ache building in my chest. But the silence makes it worse.
It sharpens everything I have tried to avoid.
The truth feels loud inside me, pressing against my ribs like it wants out.
This is the beginning of something I might not survive.
And the worst part is, I don’t think I want to stop it. But reality is waiting, and I know it will not be kind.