Chapter 55 #2
I can't respond. I can't think. My brain, which never shuts up, which spins and analyzes and worries is gone. There's only the wet heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue circling my clit, the way he groans against me like he loves it, like he could do this all night.
"Ryan." It's barely a word, barely breath.
"That's it," he says, and then he sucks me into his mouth, flicking his tongue just right, and my back arches off the bed. "That's it, baby. Fuck my face. I want this pussy to feel so good."
He's relentless. His tongue works me with steady, devastating pressure, and I can feel it building, coiling tight in my belly, higher and higher.
I'm making sounds I don't recognize, desperate whining noises, and my hands are fisting in the sheets because I need to hold onto something, need an anchor, and he's the only thing solid in the world right now.
"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for. "Please, I?—”
"Come for me," he growls, and then he pushes two fingers inside me, curling them just right, and I break.
I scream. I can't help it. I have never, not once, screamed during sex.
Not ever. But this is something else. The orgasm crashes through me, violent and overwhelming, and I'm shaking, convulsing around his fingers while he keeps licking me, drawing it out, making it last until I'm sobbing his name and pushing at his shoulders because it's too much, so much I can barely breathe.
My body is sensitive and I feel all herky jerky, like I'm not in control of my limbs.
He lifts his head, and his mouth is wet, his eyes dark and satisfied. "You're going to come again," he says, like it's a guarantee.
"I don’t think I can."
"You can." He crawls up my body, and the friction of his chest against my oversensitive skin makes me gasp. "I'm not done with you."
He strips off his jeans, his boxers, and then he's naked, and I get my first look at him-all of him-and my breath catches. He's thick, heavy, hard against his stomach, and I want it inside me. I need it. I've never needed like this.
"Tell me what you want," he says, positioning himself between my legs. The head of his cock presses against me, hot and insistent, and I try to tilt my hips, try to take him, but he pulls back just enough to deny me. "Tell me."
"You," I manage, my voice wrecked. "I want you inside me. Please.”
He pushes in, and I feel the stretch, the shock of how big he is, how he fills me completely. I cry out, my nails digging into his back, and he stills, breathing hard against my neck.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Julie, you're so—fuck, you're tight. You feel incredible.”
"Move," I beg. "Please, Ryan, move, please fuck me.”
He does. He pulls back and thrusts in, deep and hard, and I scream again because it's so much, he's so deep, and every stroke hits exactly where I need it.
He's not gentle. He's not careful. He's fucking me the way I've needed to be fucked, like he can't help himself, like he's been holding back for years and now that he has me, he's going to ruin me for anyone else.
"Is this what you need?" he asks, his voice rough against my ear. His hands grip my hips, pulling me onto him with every thrust, forcing me to take him deeper. "Tell me. Tell me how it feels."
"Amazing," I gasp, my head thrown back, my eyes squeezed shut because the sensation is overwhelming and I can feel another orgasm building already, impossibly fast. "So good, Ryan, don't stop."
"Look at me," he demands. "Julie, look at me."
I force my eyes open, and he's watching me, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide. The connection is electric, terrifying, perfect. I can't hide from him. I can't retreat into my head. He's right here, demanding everything, taking everything, and I'm giving it because I can't not.
"You're so fucking sexy taking my dick, Julie. And you're going to come again," he says. It's not a question. "I can feel you. You're close. Come on my cock, baby. I want to feel you."
His words undo me. The pressure builds and builds, and then I'm coming, harder than before, my body clamping down on him as I cry out his name.
He keeps fucking me through it, his thrusts getting erratic, losing rhythm, and then he's groaning, long and low, as he spills inside me, his hips stuttering, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then he rolls us over so I’m not taking his weight anymore. His hand is splayed across my back, holding me close, and I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek, the way we're both shaking, the sweat cooling on our skin.
"That was..." I trail off, unable to find the words.
"Yeah," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His voice is wrecked. "It was."
I raise my head and look at him then, and the look in his eyes makes my chest ache. There's tenderness there, but also satisfaction. Possession, definitely. The look of a man who knows exactly what he has, and what he's going to keep.
"I love you," I say.
"I love you too, Buttercup."
We stay like that for a long time, just holding each other, and I realize something. This is what I've been searching for my whole life. Not the grand gestures or the expensive gifts or the fairy-tale romance. Just this.
Someone who sees me. Who loves me. Who makes me feel safe-and who knows exactly when I need to stop feeling safe and start feeling wrecked. Someone who feels like home.
"What are you thinking?" Ryan asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"That I'm the luckiest woman in the world."
He smiles. “So my big dick made you happy?” he asks teasingly.
“Um, yeah,” I laugh. “You’re a magician or something. My body is wrecked, in a very good way.”
“Mine too, Buttercup. Never felt this good, ever.”
I curl into him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I'm where I’m supposed to be. Present. Happy. Thoroughly, deliciously fucked, by a man who loves me for exactly who I am.