Chapter 9 #2
I comply, assuming the position that's become so familiar—back arched, ass high, legs spread. Vulnerable and exposed and exactly where I want to be. The submission settles over me like a blanket, warm and comforting.
This is where I stop thinking, stop planning, stop trying to save the world. Here, I'm only his. Only Jordan. Nothing more required.
His hands start at my ankles, sliding up slowly. Calves. Thighs. The touch is possessive, cataloging every inch of skin. When he reaches the curve of my ass, he pauses. One hand smooths over the flesh there, almost gentle. Then his palm cracks against it, sharp and sudden.
I gasp. The sting spreads, warming my skin.
"Count them," he orders.
"One," I breathe.
Another spank, harder. "Two."
He continues, methodical and controlled, until we reach ten. My skin burns, sensitized and alive. My body trembles with need.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, running his hands over the heated flesh. Then up my spine, tracing the line of my back. Not gentle now—claiming. "My beautiful, brave, infuriating wife."
"Your wife," I agree. "Now and always."
"Damn straight." He positions himself behind me, his cock hard and ready pressing against my entrance. I'm already wet, already desperate for him. The blunt pressure makes me clench. "And it's time I reminded you exactly what that means."
He enters me in one smooth thrust, and I cry out at the fullness of it. Yes. Exactly what I needed. Not gentleness, not careful handling. Him, taking what's his with absolute certainty.
The stretch is intense, overwhelming. He's so deep like this, the angle making me feel every inch of him. My fingers clutch the sheets, needing something to anchor me.
"This is mine," he growls, setting a demanding pace. One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise. The other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, forcing my spine to arch deeper. "This body. This heart. This soul. Mine."
"Yours," I gasp. "All yours."
The words unlock something in both of us.
He fucks me hard and deep, each thrust deliberate and claiming.
The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, punctuated by my gasps and his rough breathing.
He hits that spot inside that makes white heat flood through me. Primal and raw and exactly what I need.
His hand slides from my hip to between my legs, fingers finding my clit. The dual sensation—him inside me, his fingers circling—makes my thighs shake.
"You feel so fucking perfect," he growls against my ear, bending over me. His chest presses against my back, surrounding me completely. "So wet for me. So ready."
I can't form words. Can only moan as he works me with practiced precision. He knows exactly how I like to be touched, exactly what rhythm drives me insane. Years of learning my body, of studying my responses.
"Tell me what you need," he demands.
"More," I gasp. "Harder. Please."
He pulls almost completely out, and I whimper at the loss. Then he slams back in, hitting so deep I see white. Again. And again. The pace is punishing, exactly what I begged for.
His fingers on my clit move faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The tension coils tighter in my belly, pleasure winding to something unbearable.
"Not yet," he commands when my body starts to tense. "You wait for permission."
The denial makes it worse. Better. I'm balanced on the edge, every nerve ending firing, desperate for release but holding back because he told me to. Because this is what I need—to surrender control completely, to let him decide when I'm allowed to come.
"Fitz," I plead. "Please."
"Not yet." His voice is rough, strained. He's close too, I can feel it in the way his rhythm falters slightly, in the increased pressure of his grip. "You come when I tell you to. Not before."
The power in that command, the control, sends another wave of arousal through me. I'm soaking wet, the obscene sounds of our coupling filling the room. My arms shake with the effort of holding position, of keeping myself arched and open for him.
He shifts angle slightly and hits something devastating inside me. I cry out, my body clenching around him.
"Good girl," he murmurs, approval in his voice. "Taking me so well. Looking so beautiful like this, spread open for me, letting me use you exactly how I want."
The praise mixed with the dominance is intoxicating. This is who we are—him in control, me submitting. Not because I'm weak, but because I choose it. Because giving him this power is the ultimate trust.
His hand leaves my clit to grip both hips, fingers digging in as he drives into me with renewed intensity. The loss of direct stimulation is maddening, but I don't dare reach for myself. He didn't give permission for that.
"Now," he finally commands, his hand returning to where I need it most. His fingers circle my clit with devastating precision. "Come for me. Now."
My body obeys before my mind processes the order. The orgasm crashes through me with devastating intensity, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. I cry out, probably loud enough for neighbors to hear, but I don't care.
He follows me over the edge, groaning my name. I feel him pulse inside me, heat and pressure and completion. His grip tightens, holding me in place.
We collapse together, sweaty and satisfied and completely connected. My pulse hammers in my throat, my breathing ragged. Every muscle feels loose and satisfied.
"Happy New Year, love," he murmurs against my shoulder, pressing a kiss to damp skin.
"Happy New Year," I reply. "Here's to surviving it."
"Here's to more than surviving. Here's to thriving. Together."
"Together," I agree, and seal it with a kiss.
I curl against Fitz's side, listening to his heartbeat slow to normal. His arm tightens around me.
Tomorrow, we hunt. Tomorrow, we take control of the threat instead of waiting for it to find us.
But tonight belongs to us. To this. To the life we're building despite everyone who wants to tear it down.
Outside, fireworks still pop and crackle over London. Inside, I close my eyes and let myself believe in new beginnings.
We've earned this one.