Chapter 44 Chosen #2
“You’re dripping, Rorie,” he says, a groan rumbling from his chest. “I can see it. Bet you’d soak my fingers the second I slid them in.”
I reach for him again—wild, untethered—but he pushes my hand away with maddening ease.
“Still no,” he says. “Not until you come. My voice. Your mind. That’s all you get.”
I’m shaking now, legs trembling, moaning with every breath. “Please…”
“Come,” he demands, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Picture me inside you. Deep. Bare. Pushing you open. Whispering every filthy thing I want to do to you.”
“Oh fuck,” I gasp.
“I want to fuck you slow, Rorie. Until you scrape my back and tell me you can’t take it anymore. I want to keep going. Hold you still, make you feel every inch, every vein, every throb.”
“Nolan—” My voice breaks.
“Come, baby.”
“Yes—”
“Come. Right now.” He pumps himself. I know he’s just as close as me. “Let me hear it. Let me feel it.”
And I do.
Without touch. Without pressure.
With only his voice in my ear and his words crawling under my skin.
My body crashes, spasms, heat rushing through me so fast I cry out, back bowing, hands fisting the sheets. I scream his name into the room like it’s the only word I’ve ever known.
And through it all, he holds me still. Kissing my throat. Whispering, “That’s my girl.”
His hands are on me, steady and sure, commanding without demand. There’s a power in the way he touches me, like I’m both wildfire and worship. And then he’s there, lowering himself between my thighs.
The broad heat of his body presses into mine, his chest flush against my breasts, his mouth brushing the hinge of my jaw. His cock nudges at my entrance, the blunt head dragging over my clit with a slow, devastating precision that rips a gasp from my throat.
My hips jerk instinctively, desperate for more. He holds still, savoring it, savoring me.
His voice is a whisper against my skin. “Ready for me, baby?”
I nod, breath caught in my throat, and he slides in.
Not fast.
Not gentle.
Deep.
So deep it rewrites your anatomy, carves out space and fills it all in one movement.
As he sinks into me, I cry out, raw and undone. One hand glides up the curve of my side, fingers trailing fire across my skin. He holds me like every inch of contact is necessary to keep him grounded. His other hand braces beside my head, muscle flexed, keeping him steady as he begins to move.
Every thrust is a claim, a promise, a breaking point, splintering logic and rebuilding it in his rhythm.
And I match him, move for move, gasp for gasp, offering my entire self for the taking.
He groans, low and a little broken. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good.”
His hips roll forward again, a punishing grind setting every nerve ending ablaze. His cock drags against every sensitive inch, stroking a place so deep I see stars. My walls flutter around him, greedy and desperate, and the sound it makes is filthy, wet, obscene. Sexy.
This is everything.
His thrusts build, measured, anchored, and devastating.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice frayed. “That’s what it’s like when someone’s made for you.”
And god help me, I believe him. Because I’ve never been filled like this. Never felt seen like this. Never wanted more of someone I already had completely.
And still—it’s not enough. I want everything.
I want him.
His mouth is hot against my ear. “It’s not just sex with us, Rorie.”
My pulse kicks under his touch, every beat echoing where his fingers splay over my ribs. My nails rake across his chest, chasing the slick heat of his skin.
He thrusts deeper, and my gasp tears through the room, timed perfectly with his next words.
“It’s ruinous.”
Lips brush across the curve of my neck. He presses a kiss there. Then another. Then another.
“It rewires you,” he breathes, hips rolling into me in a rhythm that feels older than logic, deeper than language. “It burns through every thought… every breath… until the only thing that exists is this. Us.”
Another thrust. Another kiss. Each one slower. More deliberate. His hand teases over my breast, fingers tightening around my nipple with increasing intensity until I’m arching into him, shameless and starving.
“You crave it,” he whispers, his voice feathering kisses across my collarbone. “Just like I do.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“It’s going to undo you, baby,” he says, a vow etched in gravel and heat. “I’m going to make damn sure of that. I will be the only man you ever want again.”
I feel him grow harder inside me.
“This—” he growls, pushing deeper, his breath ragged, “—this is what you do to me. You burn under my skin. You fucking incinerate me.”
And then—
We fall.
Together. Breathless. Boneless. A tangle of limbs and sweat and trembling sighs.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not quiet.
It’s not just sex.
It’s surrender, wildfire and homecoming—an unmaking wrapped in the beauty of being seen, known, wanted.
Chosen.
For a long, quiet moment, we just exist, our bodies still humming from the storm, our breath a shared rhythm struggling to find calm. The room is thick with heat. My fingers stay tangled in his hair. His hands stay curled around my hips like letting go means rewinding the world.
For a long, quiet moment, we just exist.
Twined limbs. Tangled breaths. No secrets. No distance. Just skin and truth and the kind of stillness that only follows after the rain finally stops.
My fingers stay curled in his hair. His hands don’t leave my hips—not even a fraction. He doesn’t let go. And this time, I know he won’t.
The silence between us isn’t fragile now, it’s full, heavy with everything we already know.
His forehead presses to mine, our skin slick and warm, our hearts thudding out the same, steady rhythm. My palm finds the tattoo on his chest, feeling it beat under my hand like a vow.
He pulls back to look at me. His thumb strokes along my jaw, and when he speaks, it’s a whisper.
“I just need you to know—” His voice cracks, and it shatters something soft inside me. “You freed me.”
I smile, but it wobbles, because now the truth doesn’t feel like a burden.
It feels like home.
“I’m not sorry,” I say. “For any of it. For the texts. For the fight. For falling.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months. “You could’ve told me.”
“I was scared,” I admit. “But I’m not anymore.”
A beat.
His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. His mouth finds mine again. This time with a sweetness that aches. A love that feels like staying. Like choosing.
Like it’s final.
When we break apart, his eyes are bright.
“I don’t want temporary,” he says. “Not with you.”
“Good,” I breathe. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
He laughs, quiet and beautiful, pressing a kiss to my cheek, then my temple, then the spot just above my heart like he’s sealing it.
And when he pulls me fully into his arms, holding me like he’s never letting go—
I believe him.