Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
The mirror doesn’t lie
Georgie
He pushes open my door and lowers me onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, but he doesn’t join me—just stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at me.
My thighs press together instinctively, a reflexive attempt at modesty even though it’s far too late for that. His eyes track the movement, and I force myself to breathe.
If I were someone confident and experienced, I’d know exactly how to arrange myself attractively on these sheets and what sultry expression to wear.
But I’ve never been the girl men want so badly they have to hold themselves back.
Which is why every nerve in my body feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something bigger than sex. Something dangerous.
“You’re staring at me really intensely,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. Just looms, gaze heavy, like he’s deciding whether I can handle him. Whether I’m ready for what he’s about to do.
“I’m trying really fucking hard to be gentle here,” he growls.
“Are you always gentle?”
“No.”
That single word sends heat crawling over every inch of my skin.
I squirm, the mattress creaking under me. “I can take it,” I say, though my body is one giant trembling contradiction to that claim.
“I don’t want you to take it, Georgie. I want you to enjoy it.”
No one’s ever said that to me before. Patrick says it like my pleasure is the entire point of this.
“I will,” I breathe, even though I’m suddenly, horribly aware that I’ve just spent hours in a sweaty pub full of sweaty balls, stale beer, and Eau de Fish Festival. That can’t be… good. Hopefully my vagina doesn’t smell like it should be displayed on a slab at Tesco.
I’m halfway to trying to invent a casual excuse to bolt for a shower, maybe even a complete makeover, when his hand drops to his fly.
The sharp zzzip cuts through the air, making my stomach clench so hard I nearly levitate off the bed.
He shoves his jeans and boxers down. His cock is already thick and heavy, the flushed head straining.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hide. Just stands there, fist wrapped around himself, letting me look.
Oh God. It’s… big. Thick. Veined. Terrifying in the best possible way.
What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
My breathing stutters as he lowers himself over me, forearms braced on either side of my head. Heat rolls off him. He pushes my hair off my shoulder, lips finding my neck—soft at first, then harder, hotter, until stubble scrapes and my fingers knot in the sheets.
His mouth closes over my nipple, sucking hard enough to make my back arch, teasing with his tongue until I gasp. The thick length of him presses into my stomach, pulsing, separated from me by nothing but the last flimsy scraps of fabric.
I reach down, desperate to wrap my hand around him, but he catches my wrists mid-motion. One smooth shove, and my arms are pinned above my head.
“Not yet,” he murmurs.
His free hand slides into my panties, knuckles grazing heat before his fingers sink into the slickness between my thighs. The lewd shlick-shlick of him stroking me fills the air, wet and shameless, each glide louder than the last until my cheeks flame.
“Soaked,” he groans, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt and heard.
“Oh God!” I gasp as his thick finger pushes inside, stretching me.
“So fucking tight.” His teeth grit as he works me open. “Clenching already… and I’ve barely started. You’ll never be able to take me.”
His finger moves slowly, dragging out before plunging back in, curling until my hips lift, chasing him.
“Please…”
His mouth works its way down my ribcage, stubble scraping my skin in delicious friction that leaves me tingling. His thumb finds my clit, circling just enough to make my thighs tremble.
I squirm, a breathless laugh slipping out—half nerves, half the unbearable ache building in me—as his lips reach the edge of my panties.
“Wait,” I blurt, my knees pressing in. “You don’t have to do this.”
His head lifts. “I’m not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do.”
“No, seriously—”
“You don’t want me to?” His gaze holds mine, patient despite the obvious hunger there.
“I… I don’t know, it’s just—” The words tangle in my throat. “I’ve never…”
His brows draw tight, disbelief roughening his voice. “Has a man never gone down on you before?”
“My ex didn’t want to. Said it wasn’t his thing.”
Patrick goes still. “That’s why you put it on your list.”
“Yes. And now you think I’m pathetic. The girl who’s never been properly...” I trail off, mortified.
“I think he’s a selfish bastard.” His tone roughens. “Georgie, I want to taste you more than I want my next breath, but only if you want it too. No pressure, sweetheart.”
The ache between my thighs pulses hotter. But the anxiety’s still there. “I’m just worried you won’t… like it.”
“Like it?” His voice drops darkly. “Look at you. You’re perfect. And the fact that no one’s ever worshipped this sweet body properly just means I get to be the first to do it right.”
Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his face to my panties, pressing in deliberately, his mouth hot against the soaked fabric, nose nudging exactly where I’m drenched.
He inhales. Long. Deep. Filthy. The sound rumbles out of his chest, vibrating straight into my core like he’s trying to drink me alive.
“Oh my God.” My legs twitch, trying to close, but his hands clamp down on my thighs, holding me wide.
This is the fear no one talks about. Not whether you’re good in bed, but whether your body—the real, unfiltered, un-airbrushed version—will disgust someone you want. The thought makes me want to scramble for covers.
He doesn’t let me. His knees press harder against the mattress, caging me in. One hand grips my thigh, the other braced on the bed beside my hip, holding me open.
His eyes never leave mine. “I already like it.”
Holy shit. This man is intense.
“I don’t like how I look down there,” I whisper.
He groans, as if the words physically pain him.
His big hands slide under my thighs, fingers hooking in the waistband of my panties.
The elastic snaps against my skin before he peels them down, dragging damp fabric slowly over heat, catching on my knees before yanking them off and tossing them aside.
Now I’m bare. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.
For a second, I think he’s going to bury his face in me again.
Instead, he grips me like I weigh nothing and lifts me off the mattress.
A startled cry escapes me as he drops me onto his lap. My spine hits the hard wall of his chest; my ass pressed firmly against the thick length of his cock.
His thighs cage mine, forcing them wide, spreading me shamelessly open.
We are facing the full-length mirror across from my bed.
The sight knocks the breath from me: me, naked and trembling, his huge body framing mine, holding me open for inspection. His cock is hot and heavy against my lower back, his arms like iron bars around me.
Every vulnerable inch of me is laid out in front of us.
Our eyes lock in the glass.
The mirror’s low light cuts across the angles of his face, shadowing his jaw, catching on the sharp line of his cheekbones. My pulse stutters because there is nothing soft about the man holding me open like this.
“What… what are we doing?”
“Taking our time. I need you to see what I see. You’re fucking beautiful.”
“That’s debatable.” I try to press my knees together but his thighs won’t let me.
“Not with me, it’s not.” His grip tightens on my thighs, a reminder that he’s bigger everywhere—arms, chest, thighs—and right now all that raw male weight is focused on keeping me exposed in the mirror for him to look at.
Heat crawls up my neck. I look anywhere but the mirror, but his fingers curl under my chin, forcing my gaze forward.
“I’m embarrassed,” I mumble.
“Don’t be. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Just breathe, sweetheart.”
I stare at us. At me spread wide, at him behind me.
“See what I see. You have a body to be worshipped. Every inch of it. Those breasts, that skin.” His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Those green eyes. That sweet little mouth that drives me insane.”
A broken groan tears out of him as his hand slips lower, sliding wet between my thighs. The obscene slick sound fills the room, louder than my ragged breathing.
He drags his fingers wider, forcing me to see every raw detail reflected back—wet, flushed, pink folds glistening under his touch, every raw detail laid bare.
“Look at that perfect cunt,” he growls. “Look at what I get to touch. What I get to take.”
The mirror traps me in the sight of him behind me, eyes dark, jaw clenched. “Now look at me,” he orders. “Look at my face and see what you do to me.”
His cock jerks hard against my spine as he says it, thick and undeniable.
My mouth opens but all that comes out is a sharp, broken gasp as his thick finger pushes into my slit.
His other hand clamps around my hip, pinning me still while his thumb finds my clit. Lazy, torturous circles, slow enough to drive me insane. Each drag pulls another broken sound out of me—a squeak, a gasp, a moan—like my body can’t keep quiet no matter how hard I try to bite it back.
I force myself to look. Really look.
The mirror shows everything—his thick fingers disappearing into my glistening pussy, reappearing slick and shiny before plunging back in. Each thrust makes a wet, obscene noise.
Behind me, his reflection is intense: jaw tight, hunger carved so deep into his face it looks savage. He watches every slick movement like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.
It should humiliate me, being opened up like this, forced to see every raw detail. But the way he looks at me makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong all along. Maybe I’m not something to hide. Maybe I’m something worth seeing.
A helpless whimper slips from my throat.
He keeps me pinned, his forearm banded hard across my middle. The pressure against my ribs makes my breath quick and shallow.