15. Dani #4
He kissed each scar until every one of them had been touched by his mouth.
He took his time with it, the way he'd taken his time with the rest of me, except there was nothing of the game left in it now, no edge, no denial, no teeth.
Just his lips, and the flat of his tongue, and the kind of patience that undid me worse than any of the heat had.
I buried my face in the sheet bunched under me and dried my eyes against it while he laid his mouth over the ropes of old skin that no one had ever once acknowledged out loud, that I'd spent half my life arranging clothing and lovers and lighting to keep hidden, and he kissed them like they were the most honest thing about me. Like the car. Made, not bought.
No one had ever touched my scars before.
Not the men I'd let touch the rest of me. Not the doctor I'd seen at twenty-three. Not the woman who cut my hair for eight years. Not me, in the dark, in the shower, in any mirror.
And he touched them so kindly that it broke something open in me I'd thought was welded shut for good.
Then his hands roamed up my back. Up my spine.
Up the length of my arms, until one hand gathered both my wrists and pinned them above my head with just the one.
His other hand came down on my hip. He settled his weight onto me, his chest to my back, and the pressure of him held me together.
Kept me from shivering apart. Like he was keeping my soul inside my own body by sheer mass.
The pressure was so good, so total, so much like being held down and held safe at the same time, that I lost myself in it.
Until I felt him notch the blunt head of his cock against me.
"That's it," he said low, his mouth at the back of my neck, as my body finally went loose and willing for him. "Let me in. Take what you want from me. You know this is what you've always wanted. Even when you didn't know my name was the name you wanted to say. You knew."
He pushed in slow, and I felt every inch of the stretch, the drag, the way my body had to open and keep opening to take all of him, and a broken sound left me that he answered with one of his own.
When he bottomed out he stilled. Hips flush to mine.
Chest sealed to my back. His hands planted on the bed, and I'd have sworn I felt them trembling against the mattress on either side of my head.
His nose ran along my pulse point. His breath huffed warm and ragged against the hair at the back of my neck.
His lips puckered and kissed the crook of my neck, and my walls jumped and clenched around the thick stretch of him.
For a long moment he just breathed me in, slow, dragging it deep, like he was filing the smell of me away somewhere he'd never lose it.
He drew back, slow, almost all the way out, and pushed back in, filling me up to a standard I hadn't known a body could be filled to.
It almost seemed intimate.
The moment was short-lived. He pulled out to the tip and slammed home, and the whole bed jumped, and so did I.
"God fucking damn it, you're so tight," he growled.
"So big. So full. Oh god, Jett. Holy shit."
"Yeah?" He let go of my hair, sat back on his haunches, and lifted my hips into the air, and the new angle drove him into a place that made my arms give out under me and my cheek hit the sheet.
He fucked up into me, deep and certain and unhurried even now, like he'd waited nine years and would not be rushed through the having of me.
"You like it like that? You like it when I take what I want? When I finally take what you owe me?"
"I just wanna come. Please, Jett. I, I, I'll do anything."
What the hell was I saying.
"Anything?" he asked, and I heard the slow dark satisfaction of it roll through his voice.
I planted my hands on the bed and met him backward, thrust for thrust, and every time he drove forward I drove back, taking him as deep as he'd go, and the sounds I pulled out of him were nothing short of miraculous.
I swear I heard him whimper as his fingertips dug bruises into my hips.
Gone were his words. Gone was the chirper of the team, the man with a joke for every room.
In his place was a beast of a man with a heart I'd already, despite my best efforts, started to learn the shape of, and the shape of it was in every hitch of his breath and every place his hands gentled even as his hips didn't.
He'd never convince me otherwise.
"Yes. Oh god. Finally. Jett. Don't stop. Please. I won't survive it."
I should've known what he'd do. The instant I begged, he stopped.
You'd think I'd have learned.
"Noooooo," I whined, actual tears cresting my eyes again, my whole body sobbing for the loss of him.
He flipped me onto my back, I didn't even track how, just the world turning and the ceiling arriving, and when my eyes focused upward it wasn't the ceiling I found.
It was Jett, kneeling, towering over me in the warm yellow lamplight, one hand stroking his cock slow, the cock that gleamed wet with me, that smelled like me, that he angled toward my mouth like an offering and a punishment at once.
"You haven't earned your pleasure yet," he said, dragging the slick head of him across my parted lips. "Not until I take mine. Now. Open up for me, Hartley."
And even with the tears still streaking my cheeks, even strung out and denied and wrecked, only one thought crossed my mind as I opened my mouth and took him in.
He can use me all he wants. If it feels this fucking good. If it feels this much like being finally, completely seen.