Chapter 4 #2
I watch the way his muscles flex under the low light, how the shadows pool in the hollows of his chest, the scars, the history written across his skin.
I reach for his belt, unfastening it with fingers that shake less than I thought they would.
He watches me with eyes gone heavy-lidded, waiting, letting me undress him piece by piece like it matters how this happens.
Like this isn’t just heat, it’s also trust.
His pants hit the floor, and I pull him back down, gasping when his bare skin presses fully against mine.
Every inch of him is hot, tense, restrained.
His hand finds my thigh and pushes it higher, spreading me open beneath him.
The head of him nudges against me and I swear I forget how to breathe.
He doesn’t push in yet.
He lingers there, one hand cradling my jaw, the other steadying himself at my hip. “I need to feel you,” he says. “No more waiting.”
“Then do it,” I whisper. “I’m yours.”
His breath stutters, like the words cut straight through him.
Then he sinks into me.
Slow. Deep.
Every inch an invasion and a relief.
I gasp, my mouth falling open, back arching into him.
He groans into my neck, the sound guttural, wrecked, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he’ll admit.
He stretches me wide, fills me completely, and the ache of it is exquisite—too much and not enough at once.
I clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging in as he stills inside me, buried to the hilt.
We don’t move at first.
We just breathe.
My body throbs around him, alive with sensation, my pulse hammering behind my knees, in my throat, everywhere.
His mouth brushes my collarbone, then my jaw, then finds my mouth again, slower now, softer.
The kiss is different.
Like something is breaking open between us.
“You feel—fuck,” he breathes. “You feel perfect.”
I moan in response, tilting my hips, urging him to move.
He does.
The first thrust is slow and dragging, the friction maddening.
I feel the stretch, the glide, the slide of him retreating and pressing back in, and my legs tighten around his waist.
I meet him with a rhythm born from instinct, from the hunger I’ve been swallowing since the first night he looked at me like I was dangerous.
The pace builds, heat curling in my spine again, the sharp slap of skin on skin layered with breathless gasps, with the wet sound of us moving together.
He thrusts deeper, harder, and I cry out, my fingers gripping his back like it’s the only solid thing I have left.
He drives into me again, filling me until I can’t tell where his body ends and mine begins.
The glide of him is thick and hot, the drag exquisite, every thrust pushing me higher.
His chest slides against mine.
His breath catches in my ear.
His hands grip my hips and hold me still as he moves inside me, deep and steady, a rhythm that makes my toes curl against the sheets.
I cling to his shoulders, nails scraping his skin, each stroke pulling a broken sound from my throat.
My head tips back.
My mouth opens around a helpless cry.
He bends to my neck, biting lightly, then soothing the sting with his tongue.
The sound he makes vibrates against my skin, low and raw, a groan that says he’s as close to losing control as I am.
His thumb finds the small, aching spot between us and begins to circle in tight, insistent strokes.
The sensation is almost unbearable.
My body clenches around him.
Heat coils low in my belly, sharper and sharper, until I'm gasping into his mouth, begging without words.
My hips lift to meet him, chasing every thrust, every flick of his thumb, until it all blurs into one rolling wave.
“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice rough and coaxing.
I shatter around him.
Pleasure rolls through me in hard, pulsing waves, my body arching off the mattress, thighs trembling violently.
I moan his name as I come, his mouth catching the sound in a deep, hungry kiss.
He keeps moving inside me, slower now but deeper, his own control unraveling with every thrust.
He lifts his head to look at me.
His eyes are dark and wet.
His pace grows uneven.
His breath tears out of him.
I can feel him throb inside me, feel the moment just before he breaks.
He groans my name, buries himself deep and holds there, shuddering hard as release takes him.
His whole body bows over mine, muscles taut, breath hot against my neck.
The sound he makes is deep and guttural, like the last thread of restraint snapping.
We stay like that, his weight pressed into me, our hearts hammering against each other’s chests.
He kisses my temple slowly, his hands still trembling on my hips, and I close my eyes, still feeling the aftershocks flickering through me.
We don’t speak for a long time.
The echo of him is everywhere.
In the bruises blooming at my hips. In the ache between my thighs.
In the unsteady rhythm of my breath.
His weight is heavy on top of me, his chest rising and falling against my back in quiet waves.
I don’t want to move.
I want to stay in this warmth, in this stillness, in the afterglow that makes everything feel distant and almost safe.
He brushes a hand down my side, slowly and absently, fingers trailing over skin like he’s trying to memorize it while pretending he’s not.
I turn my head just enough that I can see his profile in the low light.
He looks calm, but his jaw is tight.
His eyes aren’t soft anymore.
He exhales, not quite a sigh.
Then, quieter than the space between our breaths, “I shouldn’t have stayed here…”
My heart tightens.
He hesitates, like he’s swallowing glass, and then says, “And you’re going to hate me for why.”