Fourteen #2
He palms her gently first.
Then harder.
More certain.
His fingers pinch her nipples just enough to drag a sharp gasp from her mouth.
Jason smiles instantly at the sound.
“There,” he murmurs. “That one.”
The satisfaction in his voice sends heat straight through her body.
She grabs his face and kisses him hard, pulling him back into her space while grinding instinctively against him. The outline of his arousal presses hot and unmistakable through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.
He lifts her again suddenly, turning until her back meets the drywall.
The roughness against her spine grounds her instantly.
Jason kisses downward this time—jaw, throat, collarbone—pausing to suck lightly at the pulse fluttering beneath her skin while his hands roam endlessly over her body.
Her breasts.
Her waist.
Her thighs.
The curve of her ass beneath thin fabric.
Every touch says the same thing:
Mine because I choose you. Not because I own you.
That distinction nearly undoes her.
He pauses eventually with his forehead resting against her shoulder, breathing uneven now.
“You’re sure?”
Brielle takes his wrist gently.
Then slides his hand beneath the waistband of her shorts herself, guiding him exactly where she wants him.
“Touch me,” she whispers.
And this time, he does.
Mom Club Confidential
Brielle
Has anyone ever—
Types. Deletes.
Forget it.
Deletes.
Locks her phone.
?
Jason’s hand moves under the elastic with a precision that almost makes her sob.
His hands are rough in the places life has hardened them, warm everywhere else.
The first touch over her clit is so electric it nearly unseats her from the countertop.
She spreads her knees wider, not out of obligation or habit, but because every cell in her body demands more.
He starts slow, just circling, like he’s testing what the edges of her want can withstand. The friction isn’t enough, not after what she’s learned she needs, but she lets him take his time. Her hands fist in his shirt, nails digging into the cotton, grounding her.
He pulls back, breath stuttering against her ear. “Tell me how you want it,” he says. “Don’t make me guess.”
The air is thick with bleach and fabric softener and the sharp tang of her own arousal. She can barely form words, but she does. “Don’t be careful,” she says. “Make it hurt a little. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
He groans, low and honest, and pushes two fingers deeper, slick and insistent. His other hand braces her jaw, thumb at her pulse, anchoring her to the moment. He strokes her harder, knuckles pressing just right, and she bucks into him, hungry and unashamed.
“Like that?”
She laughs, a choked sound. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
He doesn’t stop. He works her apart with devastating precision, every movement tuned to the sounds she can’t stop making. She can’t think, can’t breathe, can only hold on and let the pleasure strip her down.
When she comes, it hits hard and immediate, ripping through her before she can brace for it.
Jason doesn’t let go. He slows his hand, works her through it, mouth pressed to her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, and the words land so deep she almost comes again.
She sags against him, arms limp around his shoulders. Her vision goes soft at the edges, the world nothing but his hands and her breath.
He kisses her, gentle now, letting her come down. “You okay?”
She nods, unable to speak.
He pulls her in, cradles her, and just holds her there. The room is quiet except for the click of the dryer and their mingled breathing.
After a while, he sets her on her feet, steadying her with both hands. “Can you walk?” he asks, teasing but not really.
She grins, feeling the aftershocks in her thighs. “Try me.”
He lifts her again, bridal style, and carries her out of the laundry room, down the dark hall to their bedroom. He kicks the door shut with his foot and sets her on the bed, slow. Intentional.
She watches him undress. He’s not shy, never has been, but tonight he’s deliberate—each motion a choice, not a reflex. He strips his shirt, then his pants, leaving nothing between them. His cock is already hard, flushed and leaking, and the sight of it brings the hunger back in a rush.
He crawls onto the bed, kneels between her legs, and just looks at her.
“You’re sure?” he asks, one more time.
She props herself on her elbows, hair falling wild around her face. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”
He moves up her body, kissing her stomach, her ribs, the inside of her wrist. He mouths at the bruises Leo left, then at the ones he made himself. He tongues her nipple, then bites down, and she arches into him, hungry for more.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he says, voice raw. “I just forgot how to show it.”
She takes his face in her hands, pulls him down for a kiss. “Show me now,” she whispers. “Don’t stop until I say so.”
He slides a hand under her ass, the other bracing her thigh. He lines himself up and pushes in, slow at first, then all at once. She’s so wet there’s no resistance, just a perfect, stretching fullness that makes her gasp.
He sets a rhythm, deep and steady, eyes locked on hers. His hands are everywhere—her waist, her breast, her throat, her jaw. He doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away, just watches her as if the whole world is in this one room.
She meets his thrusts, nails digging into his back, her legs wrapping around his hips to pull him deeper.
“Harder,” she says, and he does.
The headboard hits the wall, a dull percussion in time with his movements. She loves it—loves the idea of the sound carrying through the house, of the proof it leaves behind.
He fucks her like he means it, each stroke deliberate When he’s close, he slows, bites her shoulder, and says, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
She laughs, delirious. “If you stop, I’ll never forgive you.”
He grins, kisses her hard, and thrusts faster. Pressure coils tighter and tighter inside her until pleasure crashes through her so hard she can’t hold herself together anymore.
She comes again, this time shaking, legs clamped around his waist, head thrown back.
He follows, hips jerking, hands gripping her so tight she’s sure there will be new bruises in the morning. He buries his face in her neck as he comes, the sound of his release hot and helpless.
They collapse together, tangled and wrecked.
After a long minute, he rolls onto his side, pulling her with him. He strokes her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. There’s a reverence in his touch that almost undoes her.
“You’re mine,” he says softly, like a fact he’s finally allowed to say out loud.
She smiles, eyes closed, the words a balm. “I know. That’s why I trusted you with him.”
He laughs, the sound low and happy, and kisses her again.
They lie like that, quiet and close, until the world finds its axis again.
For the first time in years, Brielle feels fully inhabited by her own life.
?
They stay tangled together long after the heat fades from their skin.
The bed is wrecked—sheets twisted loose, pillows kicked to the floor, the air thick with sweat and warmth and the unmistakable aftermath of being thoroughly undone. The old headboard creaks every time one of them shifts, like it’s protesting years of neglect all at once.
Jason’s arm rests heavily across Brielle’s waist, his palm spread wide against her ribs. His thumb traces slow, absent circles just beneath her breast, like he can’t quite stop touching her now that he’s started.
He doesn’t let go.
Not even when his breathing starts to deepen toward sleep.
His other hand stays buried loosely in her hair, smoothing through the damp tangles friction and sweat left behind.
Brielle stares up at the ceiling.
The world has narrowed to the four corners of their bedroom, everything outside it dimmed and irrelevant. Laundry can wait. School lunches can wait. The dishes can wait.
For the first time in years, she isn’t mentally fleeing her own life while she’s still inside it.
She feels larger somehow.
Not divided.
Expanded.
Like her body finally stopped apologizing for taking up space.
She waits for guilt to arrive eventually—for the sharp drop afterward, the sick feeling that maybe she crossed too far and can’t uncross it now.
But nothing like that comes.
Only warmth.
Only the strange lightness of finally telling the truth with her whole body.
She thinks about Leo for a moment—the way he watched her constantly for permission, like touching her was something sacred instead of assumed. The way he waited instead of taking.
And suddenly she understands something clearly enough to ache from it:
This was never about something missing.
It was about finally being seen completely.
Wanted specifically.
Chosen loudly.
Jason shifts slightly beside her, tightening his hold when she moves.
Tonight even that feels different.
Not possessive.
Not protective.
Appreciative.
Like he’s relearning her in real time and finding things he should have noticed years ago.
She shifts again and he murmurs her name sleepily into her shoulder.
“Yeah?” she whispers.
He presses his face briefly into her skin.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Not clingy.
Not afraid.
Just honest.
Brielle closes her eyes.
“I’m right here.”
And for once, she means it without reservation.
No part of her is halfway out the door anymore.
After a while Jason rolls onto his back and pulls her with him until her head rests against the center of his chest. She listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat while his fingers drift lazily up and down her arm, tracing over the faint impressions his own hands left behind.
“Was it what you wanted?” he asks quietly.
There’s no fear in the question.
No insecurity.
Just openness.
Brielle stays quiet for a moment, turning the truth over carefully before answering.
“Yes,” she says softly. “But this is too.”
Jason exhales slowly beneath her cheek, the sound heavy with relief more than anything else.
“Good.”
They don’t dissect the future.
Don’t negotiate rules at midnight while emotions are still raw and glowing.