Chapter 15 #2
A shiver runs through me, sweat collecting on my skin even in the cool air. Every nerve ending is on fire, my body strung so tight I might shatter at any moment. I need release like I need air, but he keeps me suspended in this sweet agony.
“Look at me,” he demands, pausing his assault on my senses.
I force my eyes open, gazing down at him between my thighs. His eyes are dark with hunger, his lips glistening with my arousal. The sight of him looking up at me makes me dizzy with need.
“Beg for it,” he says, the words a low rumble that vibrates through me. “I want to hear you beg for me to let you come.”
In my old life, I would have been mortified. The proper preacher’s daughter doesn’t beg for pleasure—she doesn’t even admit to wanting it. But I left that woman behind in my father’s house.
“Please,” I breathe, the sound breaking as need overtakes me. “Please let me come, Brayden. I need it. I need you.”
He holds my gaze for one more torturous moment, then his mouth is on me again, relentless now.
His fingers curl inside me, finding that perfect spot while his tongue flicks over my clit with devastating precision.
The pleasure builds so fast it's almost painful, a white-hot surge that crashes through me with brutal force.
I come with a scream, my body convulsing around his fingers, against his mouth. He doesn't let up until I'm gasping for mercy, my hands pushing weakly at his shoulders.
Before I can catch my breath, he rises to his feet, finishing unbuckling his belt with a quick swipe of his hand.
His jeans hit the floor, and he's on me in an instant, lifting me off the counter and spinning me around, bending me over.
I barely have time to brace myself before he's pushing inside me with one powerful thrust.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. “You're so wet for me.”
I cry out, my oversensitive body struggling to adjust to his size. The stretch burns in the most delicious way, pleasure and pain blending until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
“You wanted it rough,” he growls, pulling back only to slam into me again. “Tell me, princess—is this what you've been craving? To forget everything but how I feel inside you?”
“Yes,” I gasp, my cheek pressed against the cool counter, hands scrambling for purchase. “God, yes.”
He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving the air from my lungs. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the kitchen, punctuated by my desperate moans and his guttural groans. One of his hands slides up my back, then tangles in my hair, drawing me against him.
“Look at you. Bent over my kitchen counter, taking my cock like you were made for it.”
I should be ashamed—of what I'm doing, of how much I love his filthy mouth—but all I feel is liberated.
“What would Daddy think of his little girl now?” he rasps, his fingers digging into my hip. “Moaning for a Heaven’s Reject, begging for my cock.”
The mention of my father should kill the mood, but instead it fuels something rebellious inside me. I push back against Brayden's thrusts, taking him deeper.
“I don't care,” I pant. “I don't care what he thinks anymore.”
Brayden growls his approval, “That's my girl.”
My girl. The possessiveness in his words makes me clench around him, drawing a harsh curse from his lips.
He responds by driving into me harder, the edge of the counter digging into my hips with each powerful thrust. The slight pain only enhances the pleasure building inside me again, impossibly soon after my first orgasm.
“You gonna come for me again?” he asks, his rhythm never faltering. “Gonna come all over my cock like my good girl?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I'm close.”
His fingers find my oversensitive clit. The touch is almost too much, making me cry out and attempt to squirm away, but he holds me firmly in place.
“No running. You take what I give you.”
His fingers work me mercilessly as he pounds into me. The intensity is overwhelming. My head spins as pleasure builds in my core again, my body trembling with each relentless thrust. Just when I think I can't take any more, Brayden suddenly pulls out completely, leaving me empty and aching.
“Get up,” he orders.
Before I can respond, he turns me around and lifts me into his arms. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he carries me to the living room, his mouth never leaving mine, devouring me with hungry kisses that steal what little breath I have left.
He drops onto the couch, still holding me so that I'm straddling his lap, his cock pressing insistently against my core. His hands grip my hips, guiding me to position myself over him.
“Take what you need,” he growls. “Show me how bad you want it.”
I sink down onto him in one fluid motion, crying out as he fills me from this new angle. The sensation is overwhelming. He's deeper than before, hitting places inside me I didn’t know existed.
“That's it,” he encourages as I begin to move, lifting myself up before sliding back down his length. “Ride me, princess.”
I brace my hands on his broad shoulders, finding my rhythm. Slow at first, savoring the delicious stretch of him inside me, then faster as need takes over. His hands roam my body—cupping my breasts before one hand inches up around my throat.
The gentle pressure of his hand at my throat makes me gasp, my eyes locking with his as he holds me there. My hips stutter in their rhythm, the unexpected sensation sending shivers down my spine.
“You like that?”
“Yes,” I breathe, surprised by how much I mean it. “God, yes.”
His fingers flex slightly, just enough to make me feel owned, possessed. The vulnerability of it should terrify me, but instead, it's freeing. In his hands, I don't have to be in control. Don't have to make the right choices or be the good girl. I just have to feel.
“Keep moving,” he commands, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. “Don't stop until I tell you.”
I obey, riding him with renewed vigor, my body slick with sweat as I chase my release. He holds me captive with his gaze as surely as his hand at my throat. I've never felt so exposed, so seen. He’s stripping away every defense I've ever built until there's nothing left but honest need.
“That's it,” he encourages as my pace quickens, my movements becoming erratic as I near the edge. “Let go for me, baby. Show me what you look like when you fall apart.”
The tension inside me builds to a breaking point, my thighs trembling as I slam down on him one last time. His hand tightens slightly around my throat, and that's all it takes to send me careening over the edge.
“Brayden!” I cry out as the orgasm rips through me, more powerful than the first. My body clamps down around him, each rush of feeling hitting harder than the last.
His grip on my throat loosens as he thrusts up into me, meeting my movements with his own desperate rhythm. I can feel him getting closer—his breathing ragged, muscles tensing beneath my hands.
“Fuck,” he growls.
I collapse against his chest, boneless and spent, but he's not finished. In one fluid motion, he flips us so I'm beneath him on the couch. He hooks one arm under my knee, opening me wider as he drives into me.
“I'm going to fill you up,” he promises. “Mark you from the inside out.”
“Yes,” I whimper, too sensitive for another orgasm but still craving the feeling of him losing control. “Please.”
His rhythm falters, becomes erratic. His fingers dig into my thigh as he buries himself deep inside me one last time, his whole body going rigid.
The sound that tears from his throat is otherworldly.
He collapses on top of me, his weight pressing me into the couch as we both struggle to catch our breath.
His face is buried in my neck, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin as he plants lazy, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone.
I can feel him still pulsing inside me, aftershocks of his release making both our bodies twitch.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters against my skin. “Are you trying to kill me?”
I laugh breathlessly, my fingers trailing up his sweat-slicked back. “If I was, what a way to go.”
He lifts his head, looking down at me with those storm-gray eyes. There's something in them I can't quite read—a softness that seems at odds with the man who just bent me over his kitchen counter.
“You okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
The tenderness of the gesture nearly undoes me. After everything—my father, the fight, the desperate sex—this simple touch threatens to break my fragile composure.
“I think so,” I whisper, not trusting my voice with anything louder. “Just...processing.”
He nods, understanding without needing me to explain. Carefully, he pulls out of me, both of us wincing at the sensitivity. Then he gathers me against his chest, shifting us so we're lying side by side on the narrow couch, my back pressed to his front.
His arms encircle me, one hand splayed protectively across my stomach, the other cradling my head. The silence stretches between us, comfortable yet fragile, like a bubble I'm afraid to burst.
But there's a question burning in my throat. One I can't swallow down anymore. Maybe it's the vulnerability of being naked in his arms, or the emotional whiplash of the past twenty-four hours, but I suddenly need to know where we stand.
“Is this just sex for you?” I ask quietly. I feel his body tense slightly behind me, and I rush to add, “Not that I mind if it is. I just...I should probably know what this is.”
His breathing changes and becomes more deliberate. For several heartbeats, he says nothing, and I fight the urge to fill the silence with nervous babble.
“If this was just sex, I wouldn't have let you bring your suitcase inside.”
My heart does a strange little flip in my chest. “What does that mean?”