Chapter 12 8 Hours Between Heaven And Hell #3
“Promises, promises,” she said.
“Ones I intend to keep.” I lined myself up behind her, running my dick through her slick folds.
My vision blurred as I held back a groan.
Mari didn’t, moaning and pushing her hips back against me.
I gripped one hip, holding her steady as I teased her with my cock.
It felt like I was torturing myself, and pretty soon, I couldn’t take it.
Gripping her hips, I positioned myself at her entrance.
“Last chance to back out, Landry.”
“Fuck me, Gable.”
So I did.
I gripped her tight and thrust hard, burying myself balls-deep inside her with one brutal stroke. She slammed forward, bracing herself against the back of the couch, crying out.
“Fuck, I missed this pussy,” I groaned, grinding my hips in tight circles, my length sliding over that spot inside her. Her inner walls massaged me. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. So fucking tight.”
Her reply was a broken moan, her head hanging as she fought for breath.
I waited, giving her time to adjust to me, one hand possessively gripping her hip, the other creeping up to her breast, testing the weight in my palm.
She was still sensitive, and she clenched around me as I pinched her nipple between two fingers.
“Not so tough now, are you?” I teased, giving her a moment to reply, then pulled almost all the way out before I thrust into her again, hard, when no retort came. She cried out, fingers digging into the couch.
“Again.” Her voice shook. “Hudson, please.”
“Please what?” I demanded, slapping her ass as I pulled back. “Use your safe word if you need to. Otherwise, ask nicely.”
“Harder,” she panted. “Please. More. I need—”
I slammed into her, and she cried out, eyes squeezed shut. “Keep those eyes open, sweetheart. I want to see you.”
“Fuck,” she shouted, the word echoing in my apartment.
She arched back, offering herself to me, and I slapped her ass again, loving the way she gasped and shoved back against me. She was perfect, every inch of her, and I tightened my grip, pounding into her.
“That’s it,” I encouraged, my voice hoarse as sweat dripped down my forehead. “Take it all. Take what I give you.”
I released her hips and gripped her hair, tugging her head back, exposing the smooth column of her throat.
“You feel so good,” I growled, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. “So fucking tight.”
She cried out, palms pressing flat against the back of the couch, ass pushing back to meet each of my thrusts. With each deep stroke, her cries filled the room, encouraging me to go harder and faster.
“You like that, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” She threw one arm back, reaching for me, desperately seeking something to cling to. “Yes, please. Harder, Hudson. I’m close.”
I grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm back up, holding it captive with the other at the small of her back. “Not yet,” I growled. “You don’t get to come yet.”
“Hudson, please.” Her words were broken, breathless. “Please, I need—”
“You need what?” I demanded, stilling my thrusts.
“Please don’t stop,” she begged.
“How close are you?”
“I don’t know. Hudson, don’t—”
“Don’t I decide when you come?”
“Yes, but—”
I granted her another deep thrust, rewarded with a cry of pleasure.
“I’m begging, Hudson. Please. Oh God, I need to come. Please, Hudson, please.”
“Fine. Come for me.”
Her inner muscles clenched around me as she tumbled over the edge, her cries filling the room.
I continued to thrust through her orgasm, feeling her constrict around me, milking me for everything.
I was close, dangerously close, but some small rational part of my brain insisted I wait. I wanted this to last.
Her cries died down, and she pressed her forehead to her free arm. I gentled my thrusts, letting her come down, before caressing her hips and beginning to move again. I wrapped a fist in her hair and gently pulled her head back.
“Look at me,” I demanded, pumping my hips slowly.
Her eyes fluttered open, passion and desire written across her flushed features. With my other hand, I reached between us, rubbing her clit until she squirmed.
She moaned, pushing back against my hand, grinding her clit into my palm. I took that as encouragement to increase the pressure, using the heel of my hand to apply delicious friction to her oversensitive clit.
She cried out, a mix of pleasure and desperation. “Hudson, don’t—fuck—don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“Then you’d better beg again, sweetheart. Move with me.”
Pulling my hand away, I wrapped an arm around her waist, using my grip on her hair to tilt her head back. Her eyes squeezed shut as she arched, seeking more contact.
She obeyed beautifully, her back arching, meeting me thrust for thrust. My name came as a broken cry on her lips as she shattered beneath me. The sight and sensation of her coming undid me, and I followed her over the edge, burying my face in her neck as I groaned my release.
“Fuck, Mar, fuck.” I slowed down, letting my release finish before I finally let go of her.
She crawled a foot away before turning around to where I knelt on the edge of the couch, catching my breath.
Mari kissed me, surprising me and nearly pulling me over on top of her.
Her mouth was bold and insistent as her tongue swept against mine.
At the feel of her kissing me, all thoughts of slowing down flew out the window.
“God, I’m glad I didn’t just imagine how good it was that first time,” she whispered against my lips.
I chuckled, pulling back just far enough to cup her face in my hands.
“I’m not done with you yet,” I growled, gripping her waist and pushing her into the cushions. “Get on your back, sweetheart.”
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I knew, my alarm jolted me awake. 6:30 AM. Shit. Thirty minutes until my parents were supposed to arrive for breakfast.
Mari stirred beside me, her eyes blinking open slowly. “Morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep. At some point, we’d moved to my bedroom, and god she looked good tangled in my sheets.
“Good morning,” I said, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple. “Sleep well?”
“Mmm.” She stretched like a content cat. “Very well. You?”
“Not bad.” I brushed her hair back from her face, my heart constricting at how beautiful she looked in the morning light. “But I’m afraid we have a problem.”
She frowned, coming more fully awake. “What problem?”
“My parents will be here in half an hour. Probably less, knowing them.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” I sat straight, running a hand through my hair. “I’m not... I don’t think it’s a good idea for them to meet you like this.”
“Like what? Naked in your bed? Yeah, probably not the first impression we want to make.” She flashed a grin at me, though something like hurt lingered in her eyes.
“It’s not that I don’t want them to meet you. I do. Just not... not like this. Not right away.”
“I get it,” she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet around her. “Seriously, Hudson, it’s fine. I’m not offended.”
I could tell she was, at least a little.
And I couldn’t blame her. After last night, after everything, sneaking her out before my parents arrived felt wrong.
Actually, it felt juvenile. Like I was a teenager again.
But the alternative—introducing her to my parents before I’d prepared either of them, before I’d figured out how to handle the Modern Wedding situation—seemed even worse.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted our first morning together to go.”
“First?” She raised an eyebrow. “It’s our second. And that implies there will be more.”
I leaned over and kissed her. “I’m thinking a third,” I murmured against her lips. “And a fourth.” Another kiss. “And a fifth.”
She smiled against me and then pushed my shoulder. “I get the picture.” Her expression softened. “It’s okay. Really. I should get home and change anyway. We have that meeting with Penelope at eleven, remember?”
“Right.” I’d forgotten all about it. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She climbed out of bed, the sheet trailing behind her like a toga. “I still have to find my bra, which I’m pretty sure you threw somewhere across the living room last night.”
“Check under the couch.”
I found her missing bra (under the coffee table, actually) and helped zip up her dress, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck that made her shiver.
“I’d offer you breakfast, but...” I gestured vaguely toward the door, where my parents would soon be arriving. I pulled her in for one more kiss.
The buzzer from the lobby interrupted us. My parents, fifteen minutes early as usual.
“Shit,” I muttered, pulling away reluctantly. “They’re here.”
Mari’s eyes widened. “What do we do? I’m not climbing down the fire escape.”
“That’s good, because there is no fire escape. But there are stairs. They won’t see you if you take them.”
“Where?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
The buzzer sounded again.
“Go answer it,” Mari said, pushing me toward the intercom. “I can find the stairs. Just point me in the right direction.”
“Down the hall to the left, past the trash chute. It’s the gray door that’s marked.” I hesitated, reluctant to let her go like this. “Mari, about last night—”
“Don’t get cliché, Gable,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “Go deal with your parents, and good luck.”
I watched her hurry down the hallway, her heels in her hand, dress slightly wrinkled, hair still mussed. She looked back once, giving me a small wave and a smile that made my heart ache.
She disappeared around a corner, and the world darkened.
I buzzed my parents up, using the brief wait to straighten my clothing and run a hand through my hair. I should have showered, changed, prepared somehow, but there hadn’t been time.
The sharp knock came moments later. My father’s knock.
I opened the door to find them standing there, looking exactly as they always did. Perfectly groomed, expensively dressed, and radiating disapproval.
“Hudson,” my mother said, air-kissing my cheek. “You look... rested.”
The slight pause was deliberate. I ignored it.
“Welcome to Chicago.” I stepped back to let them enter.
My father surveyed the apartment. “Interesting choice of decor.”
“I’ve only been here for six months.”
“Seven,” my mother corrected.
“I’m just glad the building has excellent security.” I leaned against the nearest wall.
“We noticed,” my mother said, placing her purse on a nearby table. “Though the doorman was easily persuaded to let us up without calling you first last night. A security concern, I’d say.”
I bit back a sigh. It was going to be a long breakfast.
“I’ll make coffee,” I said, gesturing toward the kitchen. “And I ordered pastries from the bakery down the street. They should be delivered shortly.”
“You didn’t make anything yourself?” My mother raised an eyebrow.
And so it began.
By the time we’d settled at the dining table with coffee and the delivered pastries (which my mother declared “acceptable but nothing special”), I was already exhausted.
“So,” my father said, stirring his coffee, “tell us about the Kussikov-Martin wedding. How did you secure such high-profile clients?”
I made a mental note to find a dentist in the city as I ground my teeth together.
“They approached me, actually.”
“Don’t tell me it was because of that dreadful video.” My mother wrinkled her nose.
“It was, actually. They did their research when they hired my partner and me.”
“Partner?” My mother’s head snapped up. “You’ve taken on a business partner? Why didn’t you inform us?”
“Not a business partner. A project partner. We’re planning the wedding together.”
“That seems inefficient,” my father observed. “Too many cooks, as they say.”
“It’s working well, actually.” I took a sip of coffee, buying time. “We complement each other’s strengths.”
“Hmm. And this partner is the woman you were with last night? Your dinner... date?”
The way she said “date” made it sound like a questionable life choice, right up there with recreational drug use or joining a cult.
“Yes. She’s an excellent wedding planner.
She worked with Anica Burkhardt at Knot Your Average Wedding in New York before moving to Chicago to expand their business,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t impress them.
Knot Your Average Wedding was successful but too trendy, too modern for my parents’ tastes.
“Ah.” My father exchanged a glance with my mother. “One of those social media planners.”
I bristled at the dismissal. “Mari is a professional with a unique creative vision. The clients love her.”
“Wait, Mari? As in Mari Landry? Isn’t that the name of that awful woman from the video?” My mother frowned at me.
Yup. I definitely needed to find a dentist. There were likely going to be casualties as I clenched my jaw hard enough to hurt. “She’s not awful.”
“Really? She nearly ruined your reputation.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” I ground out.
“A misunderstanding that went viral,” my mother continued, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “Really, Hudson, we taught you better than this. Associating with someone so... unprofessional.”
I stared into my coffee cup, remembering how Mari had looked last night after the second time, when she’d told me about her dreams for her business and her app. The passion in her eyes, the way her hands moved as she spoke.
“And now you’re planning a high-profile wedding with her?” My father shook his head. “It’s concerning. Especially with the Modern Wedding feature coming up.”
My stomach clenched. “The clients are happy. That’s what matters.” My tone came off flat, and I glared at the opposite wall.
“What matters is maintaining the Gable reputation,” my mother corrected.
I gave up trying to defend Mari or myself. What was the point? They’d already made up their minds. Instead, I tried to block them out, nodding at appropriate intervals while my thoughts drifted to last night.
Mari’s laughter as we shared dinner. The way she’d looked at me over her wineglass. How perfectly she fit against me when we’d kissed. The flushed look on her face as she came over and over again.
“Hudson? Are you even listening?” My mother’s sharp tone cut through my thoughts.
“Sorry. Didn’t sleep much last night.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Clearly. Your apartment’s a mess, you look disheveled, and you’re distracted. This isn’t like you, Hudson.”
Eight hours. Just eight hours between heaven and hell. Between Mari’s warmth and my parents’ frost. Between feeling more alive than I’d ever felt and wanting to disappear entirely.
“You’re right,” I said, because it was easier than arguing. “It’s not like me at all.”