Chapter 17 #2
Slow at first, each thrust a deliberate invasion, his hips grinding against my clit with every deep plunge. My nails raked his back, drawing blood, marking him as mine. “Harder,” I begged, voice breaking.
“Like this?” he rasped, snapping his hips with military precision, driving into me with a force that shook the bed. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies—skin slapping, my gasps, his curses.
“Yes—God, yes—” I chanted, my legs wrapping tighter around him, pulling him deeper.
He shifted, hooking my knees over his shoulders, the new angle hitting places that made my vision blur. His hand slid between us, fingers circling my clit in time with his thrusts, relentless, expert. “Come for me,” he growled. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
I shattered, my orgasm ripping through me like a grenade, my walls clenching around him as I screamed his name. He didn’t stop, drawing out my pleasure with slow, deep thrusts, his eyes locked on mine, drinking in every tremor.
But he wasn’t done.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up until I was on my knees, my face pressed into the sheets.
“You’re not finished,” he said, voice dark with promise.
He entered me again, this time from behind, his hands gripping my hips with bruising force.
Each thrust was a claim, a brand, his cock hitting that perfect spot over and over.
“Silas,” I moaned, my hands fisting the fabric, my body already climbing again.
“I missed you,” he groaned, his chest pressed to my back, his lips grazing my ear. “Every fucking night, I dreamed of this.”
“I hate you,” I lied, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust.
“No, you don’t,” he said, one hand sliding around to pinch my nipple, the sharp pleasure-pain sending me spiraling.
He fucked me through another orgasm, my body convulsing, my cries muffled by the bed. Still, he didn’t relent, his stamina a testament to his military training. His hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back to claim my mouth in a filthy, possessive kiss.
“Mine,” he growled against my lips, his thrusts growing erratic, his control finally cracking.
“Yours,” I gasped, and that word undid him.
He came with a roar, spilling deep inside me, his body shaking as he poured himself into me, marking me in the most primal way. We collapsed together, his weight pinning me, his arms caging me, our breaths ragged in the aftershock.
He rolled us, pulling me against his chest, his lips brushing my temple. “All I want is you,” he murmured, his voice soft now, vulnerable.
And in that moment, with his heartbeat under my cheek, I believed him.
For a long moment, there was only breath.
Only heat.
Only us.
And then, quietly, I said the one thing I hadn’t let myself say.
“I want you to stay.”
His arms tightened around me.
He didn’t speak right away.
Just exhaled, long and slow, his breath stirring the curls at my temple. His body, still flush against mine, was all heat and tension. Like he couldn’t believe I’d said it. Like the words might vanish if he acknowledged them too fast.
“Portia,” he said finally, my name a gravel whisper in the dark. “You mean it?”
I closed my eyes. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I mean it.”
His hand slid down my spine, slow and reverent, as if mapping the truth into muscle. “Then I’m staying.”
I wanted to believe that. I wanted it so bad I could taste it.
But the real world didn’t give a damn about heat and want and bruised promises whispered in the dark. The real world was six weddings barreling toward me like a champagne-fueled freight train.
I pulled back just enough to see his face. “You know I can’t—” I hesitated, trying to find the words. “I can’t be yours publicly. Not now. Not with the weddings. With your brothers.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me like he already knew where I was headed.
“If they knew I was sleeping with the planner,” I went on, “it’d derail everything. Especially after the Monte situation. Half of them would think it’s unprofessional. The other half would think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”
I smacked his arm. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” He cupped my cheek again. “So we keep it quiet.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m okay with whatever you need me to be—so long as I get to touch you when the doors are shut.”
I exhaled, shaky. “It won’t be easy.”
His gaze burned into mine. “Neither are you.”
That earned him a crooked smile. “Charmer.”
He kissed me again—soft this time. Slow. A promise in the shape of a breath. “Let them think what they want,” he said.
“And the truth?”
“The truth,” he said, voice dark and low, “is that I’d burn this whole place down if it meant keeping your name in my mouth a little longer.”
My breath caught. I buried my face in his chest, letting the warmth of him bleed into me.
“I’ve got meetings tomorrow,” I murmured. “Cake tastings.”
His lips found my temple. “And tonight?”
“Tonight, I want to sleep. In your arms. And forget, just for a little while, that I have to be perfect again tomorrow.”
He gathered me tighter. “Done.”
And just like that, I let myself exhale.
Wrapped in his arms, I wasn’t Portia the Planner. I wasn’t the fixer, the finisher, the woman with perfect hair and unshakeable poise.
I was just a woman who wanted.
And for once, I let that be enough.