Chapter 48 – Azaria #2
He didn’t ask why I’d needed that either.
He simply lifted me and laid me on the bed as though I were something precious—fragile and radiant all at once.
His hands came back to my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones and the line of my jaw, lingering in the soft hollows beneath my ears before sliding down to my throat, where he paused, feeling my pulse hammer beneath his fingers.
Only then did his touch drift lower, tracing my collarbones before settling over the curve of my breasts.
His thumbs circled my nipples, slow and deliberate.
I gasped. My back arched. My thighs shifted, desperate for friction.
He kept going, his hands sliding lower over my stomach, my hips, the length of my thighs, until they reached my ankles.
Then he traced the same path back up, slower now, firmer, with a purpose that made my breath catch.
There was something almost claiming in it, as if his touch was answering mine in a language neither of us needed spoken.
“You have no idea how perfect you are like this,” he murmured.
I pulled him down, voice wrecked already. “Quinton?—“
His mouth found mine, and I melted beneath him. My foot slid up the back of his calf, slow, then down, the arch pressing against muscle that jumped under the touch. Up again. Down. A silent claim of my own.
His lips broke away, trailing heat down my jaw, the hollow of my neck, between my breasts.
He dipped his head. His tongue, hot and wet, dragged a slow, flat line up the underside of one breast, circling the areola in lazy spirals before flicking the peak.
I moaned, loud. He sucked the nipple into his mouth, a firm pull, then grazed it with his teeth, sharp enough to sting, soft enough to melt me.
His other hand cupped the neglected breast, kneading, thumb rolling the nipple in slow circles that matched his tongue.
He switched. Same slow drag over soft skin, same hungry suck, same careful nip.
My fingers twisted in his hair, hips rolling uselessly against nothing.
Then he went lower. His mouth dragged fire down my stomach.
He settled between my thighs, pressed them apart with his forearms, and looked up at me.
His eyes were dark. “Are you going to listen to me?”
My whole body tightened at the command in his voice. “Yes,” I whispered.
He didn’t waste time. His mouth found my clit—hot tongue licking a deliberate path that made me jerk.
He groaned low and did it again, slower.
Then flattened his tongue and dragged it in one long, deep stroke that tore a cry from my throat.
His fingers spread me open. His mouth closed over my clit and sucked.
“Shit—Quinton—“ My hips jolted.
“Stay still.” He growled against me. “You can do that for me, can’t you?” Then his fingers slid fully inside: one, then two, thick and crooked perfectly.
He worked me while his mouth worshipped me. His tongue circled, then flicked, then flattened again in perfect rhythm. He was learning me—every twitch, every moan, every desperate buck of my hips.
“So responsive,” he breathed against my skin. “So wet for me. You taste so good, Sweetheart.”
I was writhing. My thighs were shaking as I grabbed fistfuls of the sheets. He pinned me down with one powerful arm and kept going—faster, messier, absolutely relentless.
Orgasm hit me without warning. I shattered on his mouth, legs locked around his head, crying out as pleasure tore through me in waves, while his fingers kept working. He moaned against me, tongue drawing out every aftershock until I was trembling and overwhelmed.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “You took that so well.”
He kissed his way back up my body, slow and reverent. His cock slid heavy and hot along my thigh, and I was burning for it.
I reached between us, fingers wrapping around him. He hissed. I guided him lower, between my folds. He didn’t push in; he slid back and forth, rubbing the thick length over my clit, over and over.
“Please,” I whispered.
“What do you need?”
“You. Inside me. Now.”
He smiled. “Beg better than that, Sweetheart. Use your words like a good girl.”
I whimpered. “Please, Quinton. I need you inside me. Please, I can’t?—“
“Good girls get rewarded,” he said, voice dropping low. “Are you my good girl, Azaria?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “I’m yours.”
His eyes went dark. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours, Quin.”
He pressed forward slowly, filling and stretching me in a way that stole my breath, and I gripped his shoulders harder as my legs curled around his waist.
“Breathe for me, Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me in. I know you can take me. You’re doing so well.”
He moved into me inch by inch, each slow, heated drag pulling a gasp from my throat and leaving me wide-eyed beneath him.
“Almost there,” he groaned. “Look at you, taking every inch like you were made for me.”
When he bottomed out, I shook. My walls clenched around him, body adjusting, trembling from the stretch. He was so deep, so full.
I reached between us, palm brushing over myself and the thick weight of him buried inside me. I cupped him gently, and he groaned, head dropping to my shoulder.
Then he moved, slowly at first. My mouth dropped open. The way he filled me, slid against every nerve, made my body sing with it.
“You feel so good,” I moaned. “So good, Quin.”
“Deeper?” he rasped.
“Please.”
He adjusted, hitting a new angle. He thrust deep and hard, and the slick sounds filled the room—skin meeting skin, heat and wetness and friction combining into something obscene.
He grabbed my thighs and spread them wider. His hips drove harder, his control finally cracking. He threw his head back, then looked down. “Eyes on me.”
I obeyed. Met his stare and drowned in the intensity of it.
His pace built. He growled low, grabbed me, and dragged me down the bed until my hips met his thighs, hands locked on my waist, and he slammed into me.
I screamed. He rolled his hips, thrusting deep as he pulled me onto him, again and again. My back arched, my whole body bucked against him.
“Take it, take every inch. You’re mine—say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasped.
“Good girl.”
“Quin—Quinton—“ I could barely breathe. “I’m?—“
“Let go. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
My climax tore through me, legs locking around him, nails clawing his arms. My body clenched hard around him, and that was it.
He came with a sound that shook through both of us, deep and hot, buried inside me.
I felt every pulse, each one sending a jolt of heat that pulled another tremor out of me.
We didn’t move for a long time. His head dropped to my shoulder. My hand slid into his hair. We stayed like that for a moment, catching our breath.
He was still inside me. I was still full.
He pulled out carefully, and I made a soft sound at the loss. He kissed my temple. “Easy,” he murmured. He left briefly and came back with a damp cloth. The lantern light turned his skin to gold as he settled beside me.
“What are you doing?” I asked, voice hoarse.
“Taking care of you.”
He cleaned me gently, wiping the slickness from my thighs. His hands trembled slightly, as though even this much care was enough to shake him. When he finished, I tugged him down beside me. He settled at my side, pulling the blanket over us, his hand smoothing over my stomach.
We lay in comfortable silence for a while, his hand tracing idle patterns on my skin, my fingers threading through his hair. Our breathing slowly evened out, the frantic energy fading into something warmer.
“Were you nervous?” he asked quietly. “Before?”
I hesitated. Then: “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Means you’re taking this seriously.” His hand cupped my face. “Means it matters to you. That I matter to you.”
“You do,” I whispered. “You do, Quin.”
He kissed me, softer, but no less intensely. His thumb resumed its slow circles on my stomach, and the silence returned. But I could feel the question forming in my head.
“Are you always like this?” I wasn’t sure why I asked. It didn’t matter, but... now I needed to know.
His thumb paused. “Like what?”
“Taking control. Being dominant. The praise. The commands.” I kept my voice even though the words cost me more than I expected. “Is that how you are with other women?”
He was quiet for a moment, weighing the truth before giving it to me.
“No,” he said eventually. His voice was low. Careful.
I waited.
“I’ve done it,” he continued. “Said the words. Played the part. They wanted it, so I gave it. Told them they were beautiful. Called them good girls. Told them what to do.”
His jaw tightened.
“But it was never real. I was going through the motions, giving them what they wanted because they asked for it, not because they needed it.”
His eyes found mine. “And I need it?” I asked.
He looked at me with an expression that went deeper than anything we’d done in this bed.
“You crave it,” he said. “Not because it turns you on—though it does—but because it lets you stop. Stop performing. Stop leading. Stop holding everything together. You surrender not because you’re weak, but because it’s the only time you let yourself stop carrying the weight of everything.”
My chest cracked wide open.
“And I’ve never needed to give that to someone until you.” He swallowed. “It’s not a game with you. It’s not a role. I don’t have to fake anything. With you, it’s instinct.” His hand came up, cupping my jaw. “It’s about seeing you,” he said. “And giving you what you need.”
“You carry everything,” he continued, softer now, thumb brushing my cheek. “The squad, the politics, grief like a second job. But here, you’re not Captain Sylvenhart. You’re just Azaria.”
My throat clenched.
“And that’s enough?” I whispered. “Just me?”
His smile was anchored. Like a truth he’d always known but had never had the right person to say it to. “That’s everything,” he said.
I kissed him, trying to say what I couldn’t speak aloud.