Chapter 18 #3
When I finally open my eyes, it’s to greet his satisfied, knowing grin—lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger.
He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then shifts, moving up my body until his hands are planted on either side of my head. He hovers there—close, contained, waiting.
I pull him down for a deep kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. The intimacy of it should feel strange. Instead, it feels right. Natural.
I push his shoulder, urging him onto his back. “My turn.”
Balance is its own kind of power, and after years of wondering what it would feel like to touch him again, to make him lose control, I’m not rushing this.
His powerful heart hammers beneath my palm as I trail kisses down his chest, following his lead.
I take my time—nipping at his hip bone, kissing the V of muscle that disappears below his waist, letting my hair brush his skin.
By the time I reach him, he’s rock hard, his erection straight and thick, lightly veined, crown already glistening.
I wrap my fingers around his base—he’s hot, heavy in my hand—and his sharp intake of breath makes me smile. When I flatten my tongue and lick up his shaft, his hips jerk. I catch his hungry gaze, hold it, then swirl my tongue over his crown, tasting salt and him, before taking him in.
The weight of him on my tongue, the heat, the way his thighs tense beneath my free hand—it’s intoxicating. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and the helpless sound he makes is filthy and holy all at once.
He’s not the only one who remembers. I haven’t forgotten how he responds when I twist my hand at his base while my mouth works the crown. I remember the sound he makes when I take him deep enough to gag slightly. I remember how his fingers tighten in my hair—not forcing, just holding on.
With my hand gripping his base and my mouth working him steadily, it’s not long before he swells on my tongue, throbbing, close to the edge. The sensation is crudely erotic—his control fraying, his breath coming in ragged gasps, my name a rough prayer on his lips.
He pulls me off him with a growl, his hand gentle but firm on my jaw. There’s a hint of scolding in his expression, but his eyes are dark with need.
“Not like that.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “When I come tonight, I’m coming inside you.”
It’s not a command. It’s a claim. My body answers before I do—a clench of need, wetness flooding between my thighs.
I shift, climbing over him, placing a knee on either side of his hips. I’m hyperaware of how exposed I am like this—straddling him, wet and open above him while he watches. But the hunger in his gaze makes me feel powerful rather than vulnerable.
I position myself, slick and shameless, and rock forward so his crown drags through my folds, circles my clit. The friction is maddening, not enough and too much all at once.
We both groan. His hands find my hips, fingers digging in, but he doesn’t guide me, doesn’t take control. Just holds on while I tease us both.
“Condom.” He growls the word, though his grip tightens like he’s fighting the urge to thrust up into me.
“I have an IUD.” I still my movements, meeting his eyes. “And I trust you.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, then heat, then something deeper I don’t want to name yet. “But last night—you regretted—”
I place my finger over his lips, silencing him. “I didn’t regret you.”
It’s true. Last night we should have handled things differently, should have talked first, been prepared. But we were drunk on lust and restraint finally breaking. Stepping back now, pretending this is casual when we both know it isn’t—that feels like the real mistake.
“I trust you,” I repeat. And I do. In this, at least. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. His hands slide up my thighs, over my hips, reverent. “God, yes.”
I rise up on my knees, reaching between us to position him. His crown presses against my entrance—hot, insistent—and I hold there for a moment, savoring the anticipation in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.
Then I sink down slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite—a surrender and a claiming all at once. By the time he’s fully seated inside me, we’re both breathing hard.
“God, you’re beautiful, Brie.” He sounds like he’s praying. His hands roam—palming my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, then sliding down to where we’re joined.
I rock over him, slow at first, finding the angle that makes my breath catch. The room smells like heat and sex and skin, and the faint sweetness of my perfume clings to him like a secret.
I’m close—muscles tightening, internal walls clenching around him—when he suddenly flips me onto my back with surprising ease. I gasp at the shift, at the loss of control, but then he’s covering me with his body, thrusting back inside with a groan that reverberates through my chest.
This angle is deeper, more intense. He braces himself above me, one hand beside my head, the other sliding down to where we’re joined. His fingers find my clit—swollen, oversensitive—and circle with relentless precision while he drives into me.
He finds my earlobe with his teeth, nipping, sucking. There’s intention in every movement, every shift. Not the desperate fumbling of last night but deliberate, practiced, devastating.
“Come for me,” he growls against my ear. “I want to feel you.”
His fingers press harder, circles faster, and his thrusts hit that deep spot that makes me see stars. The dual sensation breaks me. Ecstasy tears through me—white-hot and all-consuming—my back arching off the bed, nails digging into his shoulders, his name torn from my throat.
I feel him follow—his thrusts turning erratic, losing rhythm. He groans my name and arches, pulsing deep inside me, filling me with heat. Our releases aren’t escape but recognition—two people who stopped running long enough to really see each other.
After, he rains soft kisses along my jaw and chest. I cling to him like a woman who finally remembers her own name.
The CIA trained me to compartmentalize. To keep distance. To always have an exit strategy.
This time, I don’t reach for distance. I reach for him. This time, I let myself stay.