Chapter 10 #2
I try to push him away, my hands coming up to his chest, but there is no strength in the gesture.
It is a token resistance, a final, futile protest from the woman I used to be.
He ignores it, deepening the kiss, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me away from the wall and flush against his body.
He holds me, letting me cry, his lips never leaving mine, kissing away the tears as they fall.
He murmurs against my mouth, soft, incoherent promises.
It feels like coming home after a long, brutal war.
It feels like salvation. I know it’s a lie.
I know it’s a different kind of cage. But right now, this one feels warm and safe, and I am too broken to care.
When my sobs finally subside, he lifts his head, his forehead resting against mine. Our breaths mingle in the quiet space between us.
“Where is your bedroom?” he asks, his voice a low, rough whisper.
I don’t answer with words. I just tilt my head, gesturing down the short hallway. It’s all the answer he needs.
He scoops me up into his arms as if I weigh nothing.
I gasp, my own arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, holding on.
He carries me into my bedroom, a room he has never seen but moves through as if he knows every inch of it.
He lays me down gently on the bed, on my rumpled, unmade sheets.
He follows me down, his body covering mine, propped up on his elbows so he isn’t crushing me.
He kisses me again, and this time there is a spark of heat, a promise of what’s to come. It’s a slow, languid exploration. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, asking for entrance, and I grant it without hesitation. The kiss is deep, soulful, and utterly consuming.
He takes his time. This is not the frantic, angry fucking from before.
This is seduction in slow motion. His hands roam over my body, rediscovering me, but with a gentleness that makes me ache.
He pulls back from the kiss and his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, hold mine as he slowly, deliberately, lifts the hem of my t-shirt.
He pulls it over my head and tosses it aside.
His gaze travels down my body, over my bare breasts, my stomach, to the waistband of my shorts.
It is the look of an artist admiring his work.
He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over my nipple.
A sharp, electric shock of pleasure jolts through me.
He suckles, his tongue laving the peak into a hard, aching point.
He teases it with his teeth, a gentle scrape that sends a shiver down my spine.
My back arches, my fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to me.
He gives my other breast the same lavish, unhurried attention, until both nipples are wet, swollen, and exquisitely sensitive.
His hand slides down my stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of my shorts.
He finds the drawstring and slowly, deliberately, pulls it undone.
He eases the shorts down over my hips, his fingers brushing against my heated skin.
I am already wet for him. My body, the goddamn traitor, recognized its master the moment he walked through the door.
He slips his hand between my thighs, his fingers finding the damp heat of me. He groans, a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat.
“So ready for me,” he whispers. “Always so wet for me.”
He doesn’t enter me yet. He teases, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing a slow, hypnotic circle that makes my hips begin to move. Two of his fingers press against my entrance, slicking through my wetness, preparing me.
“Touch me, Olivia,” he commands softly. He takes my hand and guides it down between our bodies, to the hard, thick length of his cock, straining against the fabric of his trousers. I wrap my fingers around him, feeling the heat, the rigid strength.
He groans as I squeeze him, his hips bucking slightly.
His own rhythm against my clit becomes more insistent, firmer.
The pleasure is building inside me, a hot, coiling snake of need.
It’s different this time. It’s not the sharp, explosive release from before.
This is a slow, languid burn. One that feels less like a shattering and more like a melting.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “Feel what you do to me.”
He rose to his knees over me, his eyes never leaving mine as he stripped.
It wasn't a rushed or clumsy act; it was a deliberate, predatory unveiling.
His shirt came off in one fluid motion, revealing the lean, sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen, dusted with a fine trail of dark hair that tapered down toward his waist. The quiet click of his belt buckle was a sharp, distinct sound in the silent room.
He unfastened his trousers and kicked them aside with his briefs, the expensive fabric pooling in a dark heap on the floor.
And then he was bare before me—a predator in his skin, all hard muscle and raw, masculine power, his cock thick and fully erect, jutting from a nest of dark hair.
He didn't need to touch me to hold me captive; his gaze was a physical weight, a promise of the complete possession that was about to come.
He covered me once more with his body, his fingers suddenly slip inside me.
The two thick digits, moving in a slow, deep rhythm makes me cry out. He stretches me, fills me, while my own hand is grasps his cock, feeling the frantic pulse beneath my fingers. The dual sensations are too much. My world narrows to his touch, my touch, the friction, the heat.
My orgasm comes not as a scream, but as a long, shuddering cry, my entire body convulsing. My name falls from his lips like a prayer as I come undone in his hands.
He gives me no time to recover. As the aftershocks are still vibrating through me, he withdraws his fingers. He moves between my legs, and I feel the blunt, hot tip of his cock pressing against my still-pulsing entrance.
He enters me slowly. A thick, deliberate invasion that has me gasping for breath.
It is a perfect, snug fit, a key sliding into a lock it was made for.
He is still gentle, but there is an undeniable insistence in his movements.
Every slow thrust is a claim, a brand, a silent vow he is forcing me to take.
He kisses me throughout, deep, drowning kisses that steal my breath and my thoughts. His body moves with a powerful, hypnotic rhythm. He is overwriting the angry, brutal act from his penthouse with this slow, tender, devastatingly complete possession.
He kissed me as he moved, his mouth a constant, soothing presence against mine.
They weren't hungry, punishing kisses; they were long and deep, tastes of his breath mingling with mine until I didn't know where I ended and he began.
He would break the kiss only to murmur against my lips, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that vibrated through my bones.
“That’s it,” he’d whisper, his rhythm unwavering, a slow, steady rocking that was building a fire deep in my belly. “Just like this. Feel this, Olivia.”
My hands, which had been clutching at his shoulders out of sheer shock, began to move of their own accord.
My fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades, the smooth, hot skin of his back.
He felt like solid ground after a lifetime at sea.
He was the anchor, the storm, the entire goddamn ocean, and I was adrift in him.
He pulled back slightly, his shaft sliding almost completely out of me before sinking back in, slowly, torturously.
The exquisite friction of his re-entry made me gasp, my back arching off the bed.
His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, were locked on mine, watching every flicker of pleasure, every involuntary twitch of my muscles.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, the sound a raw vibration in his chest. “So tight around me. Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
He lowered his head, his lips leaving mine to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat, over my collarbone. His hand came up to cup my breast, his thumb circling my still-sensitive nipple, sending a fresh wave of heat straight to my core.
“Tell me you like this,” he murmured against my skin, his voice thick with a need he was holding barely in check. “Tell me you want me inside you.”
“Yes,” I breathed, the word a surrendered sigh. “Yes, Jasper.”
Hearing his name on my lips seemed to ignite something in him.
The gentleness remained, but the insistence grew.
His thrusts became deeper, firmer, each one aimed at a place so deep inside me it felt like he was touching my soul.
He found a rhythm that was both punishingly slow and intensely satisfying, a steady pressure that was building toward something immense, something I could feel gathering in the base of my spine.
My hips began to move with his, a slow, hypnotic sway.
I was no longer a passive recipient of his touch; I was a participant, meeting his every slow, deep thrust with a small upward tilt of my own, my body pleading for more.
The sounds I was making were no longer my own—they were soft, needy moans, pleas for a release I could feel just on the horizon.
“So responsive,” he praised, his lips finding mine again for another long, drowning kiss.
“You can’t hide it, can you? How much you want this.
” His hand slid down between our bodies, his fingers slipping through the slick heat where we were joined.
His thumb found my clit again, resuming its slow, merciless circles, even as he continued to move inside me.
The stimulation was pure, exquisite torture. The deep, full feeling of his cock stretching me from within, and the sharp, focused pleasure of his thumb on my most sensitive point. My vision started to blur at the edges. The world narrowed to this bed, this room, this man.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, the veneer of his control beginning to fray. “Let go for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”
I was so close, teetering on the edge of a precipice. The pleasure was an unbearable, beautiful ache. My inner muscles were already beginning to flutter, a prelude to the coming storm. I was a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap.
“Look at me, Olivia,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. He pulled back enough to see my face, his own expression a mask of strained concentration and raw desire. “I want to watch you.”
My eyes met his.
He surged forward then, one final, deep, soul-shattering thrust that buried him to the hilt. It was the final push I needed.
My world exploded.
A long, keening cry was ripped from my throat as my body convulsed around him, my inner muscles clenching, milking him, pulling him deeper.
My release triggered his. I felt the change in him, the sudden, rigid tension of his entire body. He threw his head back, a guttural groan torn from his own throat, a raw, animal sound of pure, male release. He pulsed inside me, emptying himself, flooding my womb with his heat.
He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a comforting, possessive blanket.
His face was buried in the curve of my neck, his harsh, ragged breaths ghosting against my skin.
My own breathing was a mess of shallow, shuddering gasps.
My legs were tangled with his, my arms were wrapped loosely around his back, my fingers splayed against his sweat-slick skin.
We lay there for a long time, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the only sounds the frantic beating of our hearts and our labored breaths slowly returning to normal. The air was thick with the scent of sex, of our mingled sweat. My bed, my sanctuary, was now tainted.