Chapter 12 Family & Fracture #2
“Relax that pussy for me, baby. Let me in. Let daddy in,” I croon straight into her ear.
She freezes for a rigid moment. Then, holy of holies, she drops back onto her heels, impaling herself harder on my cock.
And sweet fucking fuck, I’m in.
I stare at where we’re connected. Where my crotch is snug against her pussy hole. No excuses in. “Jesus Christ. Was that what you needed, you filthy girl? A daddy kink?”
Her throat gurgles and shudders repeatedly.
I’m also scared to pull out, scares she won’t take me back in. “If I pull out, will you let daddy back in?”
She squeaks an incoherent answer as sweat drips down my temple.
We can’t stay like this forever. I need to fuck my woman. Need to come in that magic pussy before we both lose our minds.
So I pray to every god listening. Then I pull out slowly, dragging another whimper from her. And I drive back in.
There’s a hint of a resistance. But then I make it back in, full hilt. “Oh fuck oh fuck, you did it.” I try again and she takes me back in. “Good girl. Such a good girl. Daddy’s so proud of you.”
The steady drenching tells me how much she loves the praise and I heap more on her head until my balls scream enough.
Until I remember why we’re rage-fucking in the first place.
Then the tide turns. Fury-bleeding-into-need, the kind of sex that leaves bruises and apologies and forgiveness tangled in the sheets.
She comes first, with a high-pitched scream I’m sure can be heard in China.
Then I band my arm around her waist and walk us to the bed, where I put her face down and spent one frantic minute pumping inside her until I roar with the agonised pleasure of it.
When it’s over, when she’s trembling under me, breath broken, skin flushed, lips swollen, I keep her hips pinned to my crotch, deeply impaled inside her with no signs of give.
I arrange us sideways on the bed and brush my lips over her damp temple. “I’m never losing you,” I whisper.
Ruby swallows hard but says nothing.
And we stay like that until she falls asleep.
And while she’s sleeping, I rock my hips, fucking her slow and steady, catching and hoarding the soft cries she makes in her sleep, the fluttering of her pussy around my stiff dick. And when I’ve emptied my balls a second time, I join her in sleep.
Four hours later, we rise, shower and get dressed silently.
Tension still hums between us, thin, sharp and electric.
I tug on a black shirt, pants and leather jacket.
She smooths her glitter dress over her hips, hands shaking slightly.
When I hold out my hand, she takes it. My eyes tell her how stunning she looks. Her eyes soften at the compliment. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then her knuckles.
Then we walk out together.
United, uneasy but still burning.
Ready to pretend everything is fine.
Ready for the party that’s about to blow us up in brand new ways.
Ruby
I shouldn’t have called home.
Not because I don’t miss Oregon—God, I do. The pine trees, the rain, the silence, the feeling that the only thing watching me is a bored raccoon.
But hearing my mom’s voice, hearing her concern, hearing her say “you can come home whenever you want, baby”…it cracked something open.
And Zane heard it.
It’s almost laughable that it predictably led to our first real fight. The kind where emotions get sharp and words get louder and suddenly you’re kissing because you don’t know how else to stop the ache.
Now, even hours after the fact, my thighs feel like I’ve been sinfully benched for a double-header, and I’m shaking just a little as we walk into the party Freddie refused to cancel.
The place was transformed as I slumbered in post-fight post-coital bliss.
And now as we come down the stairs and head out onto the mile-wide terrace, I’m blinded by lights, deafened by music and perfume thick enough to choke a small mammal.
The people, the clothes, the egos…everything sparkles. It’s a room filled with sharks pretending to sip champagne.
I don’t belong here.
I know it the second we walk in.
Hollywood starlets draped in dresses that cost more than my old rent. Studio execs with teeth too white and smiles too plastic. Influencers with ring lights clipped to their phones like they’re in a portable interrogation scene.
And there’s me.
In a sequined dress Zane silently pointed to, the same one I glared at him for because it was my choice before he stole the agency from me.
With makeup done by a professional and hair curled like I’m about to star in some blockbuster romantic drama.
Still feeling like the barista who kept accidentally burning the milk because Toby wouldn’t stop staring at my chest.
People stare now but with something new in their eyes.
Curiosity.
Judgment.
Envy.
Hate? Fucking hell.
I can feel it crawling up my skin like individual legs of hideous spiders.
I tighten my hand on Zane’s, just for something real to hold onto.
He squeezes back without looking at me, scanning the room like he’s already counting exits and threats and which bodies he’d trample first to get me out. I hate that it comforts me and to hide the very un-feminist feeling, I snag the first glass of champagne I see.
Which snags Zane’s attention. I’m attempting to decode the weird look in his eyes as he watches me take a sip when Freddie swoops in within minutes, ushering us into conversation circles so fast my head spins.
Ruby Lane, meet the director.
Ruby Lane, meet the choreographer.
Ruby Lane, meet a producer who calls me “sweetheart” in the tone of a man who thinks my IQ is single digit.
Zane’s jaw ticks so hard I hear it grind.
I smile. I small-talk. And I try not to die inside.
Eventually when Freddie manages to surgically extract Zane from my side to talk to an exec who insists on privacy—to Zane’s thunderous scowl—I drift toward the open bar, taking in a breath of air that tastes less like champagne mist and more like survival.
God, I miss normal. And God, I hate that part of me wonders if I’d even recognize normal anymore. Especially after Zane Draven.
I reach for a napkin, just as someone steps into my path, blocking my view to the rest of the room.
A man I don’t know, although by the handsome smirking going on, he’s sure I do. Before I can open my mouth, he holds out his palm, displaying something small and colourful.
“Want something stronger?” he purrs. “It’ll perk you up faster than the speed of a bullet train.”
Before I can blink, before I can even register the shape of the pill, someone growls.
Loud enough to drown out the music.
And the temperature in the room plummets.