Chapter 26 Lila #2
Floor-to-ceiling glass. City lights stretching endless and bright. It’s past midnight and the whole damn skyline is watching.
He shifts his grip and lowers me—not onto the floor, not onto the bed, but against the window. My palms slap the cold glass and my breath fogs the pane in front of me.
I barely catch it before he thrusts in again, hard enough to make me jolt forward with a cry.
“Keep your hands there,” he growls behind me, voice dark and raw. “Let them see how good you look like this.”
My chest presses to the glass. My cheek too. I nod, panting, and he fucks into me again.
Thwack.
My hips slam against the window with the force of it.
Thwack.
Again. Harder.
My body jerks with every movement. The glass is cool against my skin but I’m on fire everywhere else, flushed, wrecked, dripping.
“You hear that?” he murmurs against my neck, tongue dragging slow up the curve of it. “That’s your cunt bouncing off the window. Loud enough to echo.”
I whimper, nails scraping down the pane, too wrecked to care about anything but the next thrust.
“You look obscene like this. Dress pushed up. Legs spread. Tits smashed against the fucking glass. Just a hole for me to fill.”
Another thrust. Another smack of hips to skin, hard and relentless.
“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted to be used. Owned. You waited for it.”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes—please—”
He slides his hand down my side, fingers dragging possessively over my hip, then between my legs. He doesn’t stop moving while he touches me there—just adds to it, his thrusts slow and deep now, fingers stroking in tandem with every grind of his cock.
I nearly collapse.
“Stay up,” he snaps. “Don’t you dare drop those hands.”
I obey, shaking, mouth open against the glass, and he groans behind me like I’ve given him something vital.
“Good girl.”
The praise cuts deeper than the thrusts. My body pulses around him, and he feels it—laughs low and dirty in my ear.
“You like that? Of course you do. So needy. So desperate for approval you’ll melt the second I call you good.”
Thwack.
Thwack.
I’m nothing but nerve endings now. I can hear how soaked I am every time he drives in. It’s slick, loud, raw. His cock slams into me again, again, again, and I’m grinding back into every thrust without even meaning to.
“You’re going to make a mess on my window,” he says. “That’s how wet you are.”
I sob out a noise that might be agreement.
“Don’t come,” he says, and I whine, because I’m right there.
“Not yet,” he adds, voice like sin. “You haven’t earned it.”
His hand fists in my hair and yanks me back against him, my spine curving as he fucks me harder, deeper, the sounds louder, wetter, filthier.
My breasts bounce against the glass with every thrust, nipples dragging over the cold surface, and he watches it all in the reflection—his expression dark and wild and starving.
“You see yourself?” he growls. “See what you fucking do to me?”
I nod, but I can’t breathe. Can’t speak.
“You’re perfect like this,” he says. “Every inch of you. These hips—fuck—they were made to take me.”
Thwack.
“Say it.”
“Made for you,” I pant, nearly crying from how good it feels.
He fucks me harder.
“Say it again.”
“Made for you, Ethan—please—please—”
His hand leaves my hair and clamps around my throat, not tight, just enough to anchor, to claim. His thrusts grow ragged, but he doesn’t let go of control. Not yet.
I’m gasping, choking on every thrust, and my thighs are trembling so badly I don’t know how I’m still standing.
“You’re not coming,” he snarls in my ear. “Not until I say so.”
And I nod. Because I need to obey. I need to earn it. Even if I’m falling apart.
“You’re mine,” he growls. “And when I let you come, you’re going to scream it.”
I nod again.
Then he bends me just slightly, his hand spreading over my lower back, and pounds into me with a force that makes the glass rattle. My moan breaks open, desperate and raw, but I still don’t come.
“You’re mine,” he growls again, and this time there’s a tremor in it.
A warning.
His hand slips from my throat, slides down the front of my body, and presses between my thighs again, fingers slick with everything he’s already pulled from me.
He doesn’t tease now. Doesn’t draw it out.
Just circles exactly where I need it, firm and focused, every movement in sync with his cock driving into me from behind.
My hips jerk. My knees buckle.
And I feel him bend lower, his chest flush to my back as he says it in my ear, rough and final.
“Come for me. Now.”
It detonates inside me.
Every muscle tightens at once, every sound I’ve been holding in tears loose from my throat. My hands slap harder against the glass, my forehead pressed to the window as I scream through it. My body clenches around him like it never wants to let go.
He doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t slow.
He fucks me right through the high, dragging it out until I’m gasping, twitching, too sensitive to bear it but unable to pull away. His fingers stay exactly where they are, working me in sync with every thrust, keeping me spiraling.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice unhinged now, control slipping. “That’s it. Milk my cock, baby. That’s what I want.”
I whimper something broken, and he groans behind me—long, low, guttural.
Then he slams into me one final time. I feel the heat of it hit as his hips jerk, cock pulsing deep inside me. His hands are locked on my waist now, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and his breath stutters out of him in shattered bursts.
He’s still inside when he leans forward and presses his mouth to the back of my neck, breathing hard against sweat-damp skin.
“Fuck,” he mutters, lips dragging along the curve of my shoulder. “You feel unreal. So fucking tight. So good.”
I can’t speak. I’m still spread open against the glass, thighs shaking, breath coming in short, shallow gasps. My dress is bunched at my hips, my legs covered in the evidence of everything he just did to me.
He doesn’t pull out yet.
He stays there for another long beat, hands smoothing over my waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. His thumbs stroke over my skin, slow and steady, tracing the curve of my hips like he’s not ready to be done.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Calmer.
I nod, cheek still resting on the glass.
He pulls out with a groan, slow and wet, and I feel him slide his hand between my legs and finish there.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
I shiver.
He turns me around, one hand behind my back, the other under my thighs to lift me again. My legs part on instinct, loose and pliant, wrapping around his waist as he carries me across the room.
He sits down in the armchair, settling me on his lap, my back against his chest. His arms wrap around me, firm and grounding, and his mouth presses a kiss to the side of my face.
“You were perfect,” he says, voice quiet.
I melt back into him, too wrung out to speak, body still trembling slightly from the intensity.
He lets the silence stretch for a moment. “You know that window’s never going to be the same again.”
That gets a soft sound out of me—half laugh, half breathless groan.
“You said not to move,” I manage to murmur.
“I did,” he says. “And you listened.”
His fingers stroke lazily over my thigh. “Which means next time, I’ll give you even more.”