Chapter Twenty
Hope
Throughout the night, Chapman made love to me.
Again and again, until I couldn’t tell where he began and I ended. Until my body was nothing but sensation. Raw, aching, and alive in ways I had never imagined possible.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, I realized somewhere in the haze of pleasure and need. Not Angel. Not some vague future. Him. Always him.
Even before I knew his name, before I saw his face in daylight, my body had recognized him at the pond. My soul had known. And now, in this run-down motel room with peeling paint and faded curtains, he claimed me completely. Made me his in the most primal, undeniable way.
Even now in the early morning, he was slow and deliberate.
His hands mapped every inch of my skin like he was memorizing me, his mouth following the path his fingers traced.
He whispered my name—my name, not hers—like a prayer, like I was something sacred he was afraid to break.
“Hope,” he breathed against my collarbone, as his lips trailed fire across my skin. “Oh God, Hope.”
Each time he said it, something inside me unfurled.
He wasn’t lost in memories of Julie. He was here, present, with me.
Seeing me. Wanting me. Choosing me. His hands were everywhere.
Cupping my breasts with a reverence that made my breath catch, tracing the curve of my waist, sliding down to grip my hips.
The rough calluses on his palms scraped deliciously against my skin, sending shivers racing through me.
I arched into his touch, and silently begged for more, and he gave it to me.
As his mouth closed over my nipple and sucked gently at first and then harder, I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair to hold him there.
The sensation shot straight to my core, making me impossibly wet.
I could feel the slickness between my thighs, could feel my body preparing itself for him, and the knowledge made me flush with heat.
I want this, I thought desperately. I want him. All of him. Everything he can give me.
He kissed his way down my body. My sternum, my ribs, my belly, and I trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the tenderness in every touch.
This wasn’t the desperate, grief-stricken coupling at the pond.
This was deliberate. Intentional. This was Chapman choosing to worship every inch of me, to learn my body, to make me his.
When he finally settled between my thighs, his broad shoulders forcing my legs wider, I felt exposed in a way that should have terrified me. But the look in his eyes, dark with desire, soft with something that looked dangerously like love, chased away any fear.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “So perfect.” And then his mouth was on me, and I stopped thinking altogether.
The sensation was overwhelming. His tongue stroked through my folds, circled my clit, and then dipped inside me.
I cried out, my hips lifting off the bed, but his hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as he devoured me.
The scratch of his stubble against my sensitive skin added another layer of sensation, pleasure bordering on pain, as I fisted my hands in the sheets to keep from flying apart.
When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened with my arousal, and I trembled, desperate, aching for more.
“Please,” I whispered, not even sure what I was begging for.
But he knew. He moved up my body, settled between my thighs, and I felt his cock—thick and heavy and impossibly hot—pressing against my entrance.
My breath caught. Even after the pond, even knowing what to expect, the reality of him was overwhelming.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to mine, his eyes locked on my face. “Just breathe.”
I tried, but the fullness as he pushed inside was almost too much. He was so big, stretching me open inch by inch, and I felt every ridge, every vein as he sank deeper. My body trembled beneath him, adjusting to the intrusion, and he held still, letting me accommodate him.
He’s inside me, I thought, dazed. He’s filling me completely, and it feels like coming home.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice strained, his muscles taut with the effort of holding back.
I nodded, unable to form words, and then he started to move.
Long, slow strokes that made me gasp. The friction was exquisite, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve inside me, lighting up places I didn’t know existed.
I wrapped my legs around his waist to pull him deeper, needing more, needing all of him.
“God, Hope,” he groaned, his breath hot against my neck. “You feel so fucking good. So tight around me.”
His words sent heat flooding through me, pooling low in my belly.
I arched into him, wanting more, needing more, and he gave it to me.
His hips rolled in a steady rhythm that built the pressure inside me with each thrust. I felt the sweat gathering between our bodies, the slick slide of skin on skin, and the way his breath came faster against my neck.
This is what it means to be alive, I thought as pleasure spiraled through me. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
My orgasm built slowly, a wave gathering strength, and when it finally crashed over me, I clenched around him, my body pulsing with pleasure. He groaned at the sensation, his movements becoming less controlled, more desperate, and then he buried himself deep and followed me over the edge.
I felt the hot pulse of him emptying inside me, felt the way his body shuddered against mine, and something fierce and possessive bloomed in my chest. Mine, I thought. He is mine.
We barely caught our breath before I felt him hardening again, his cock pressing insistently against my hip. The realization that he wanted me again so soon sent a fresh wave of arousal through me, making me impossibly wet.
How is this possible? I wondered, dazed. How can I want him again already? But my body knew the answer. It had been starving for this, for him, for years without even realizing it. And now that I finally tasted what it meant to be his, I couldn’t get enough.
He pulled me beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and the second time was different.
Desperate. Urgent. Like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get deep enough, couldn’t claim me thoroughly enough.
His hips drove into me hard and fast, each thrust punching the air from my lungs.
I could hear the wet sounds of our bodies joining, the slap of skin against skin, and it made me wetter.
The obscene sounds should have embarrassed me, but instead they turned me on even more, proof of how much I wanted him, how ready my body was for his.
“More,” I begged, as my nails dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Chapman, please, more.”
“Say my name again,” he growled against my throat, his teeth scraping over my pulse point hard enough to make me gasp.
“Chapman,” I gasped, my voice breaking. “Chapman, please.”
“Please, what, baby? Tell me what you need.”
“Don’t stop. God, please don’t stop. Harder. I need—I need.”
And he gave me exactly what I needed. He took me over and over, his cock filling me so completely I thought I might shatter.
I felt him throbbing inside me, felt the way my body gripped him with every thrust, and the sensation was almost too much.
My breasts bounced with the force of his movements as he leaned down to capture one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
The dual sensation, his cock pounding into me and his mouth on my breast, pushed me over the edge.
I came with his name on my lips, my body clenching around him so tightly he cursed.
The orgasm ripped through me, making my thighs shake and my vision blur, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
He followed me over the edge with a guttural groan that vibrated through my chest, and I felt the hot pulse of him emptying inside me again.
He’s marking me, I realized through the haze of pleasure.
Claiming me from the inside out. Making me his in a way that can never be undone.
And God help me, I wanted it. I wanted to be marked, wanted to be claimed, wanted to be possessed.
Wanted to belong to him so completely that nothing could ever tear us apart.
Even though I knew, even then, that morning would come.
That Shadow would find out. That this stolen night would have consequences neither of us could escape.
But I didn’t care. In that moment, with Chapman’s weight pressing me into the mattress and his cum hot inside me, I didn’t care about anything except the feel of him, the taste of him, the overwhelming rightness of being his.
We collapsed together, our breathing ragged, our bodies slick with sweat. I felt his heart pounding against my back as he pulled me close, his arm wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my hair.
“I love you,” he whispered into the darkness, and I believed him.
Because I felt it in every touch, every kiss, every desperate thrust. He loved me.
Not Julie’s ghost. Not some replacement for what he lost. He loved me—Hope Owens, homeopathic entrepreneur, waitress, sister.
A woman who had been waiting her whole life for something I couldn’t name. And God help me, I loved him too.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, I thought as sleep tried to pull me under.
This is who I’ve been waiting for. But we barely dozed before his hands found me again.
Even in sleep, he reached for me, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip, the soft skin of my inner thigh, cupping my breasts possessively.
And I arched into his touch, wanting him even when I was too exhausted to move.