Chapter 17 #2
I sink in another inch. Then another. Watching her face transform with every fraction—lips parting wider, eyes losing focus, the tendons in her neck going taut.
"Breathe," I say. Because she's forgotten to.
She exhales in a shudder and I sink the rest of the way. Buried completely. The angle is deeper than I've been inside her before, the tight grip of her body around every inch making my vision blur at the edges.
"Again," she breathes. "Move faster—please—"
I pull back. Slow. The drag of her inner walls against me is almost unbearable—hot, slick friction that sends heat crawling up my spine. Then I thrust in.
Her moan is broken. Raw. Her hands twist in the sheets and her breasts shift with the impact, nipples tight, flushed pink.
"Like that?" I do it again. Harder.
"Yes—oh hell—yes—"
I set a rhythm. Deep and steady. Watching myself disappear into her, the slick pull each time I withdraw and the way her body draws me back. I love the way her body yields and then grips, pulling me back in each time I withdraw like her body refuses to let me go.
Her breasts move with every thrust. Full, heavy, bouncing with each impact—and I can't look away. Can't think about anything except how they look right now, flushed and swaying, nipples tight and dusky pink against her skin.
I reach down. Cup one roughly—too roughly, maybe, but I'm past caring. She's looks wanton and beautiful like this. My fingers sink into the soft weight of her and I groan, a low, guttural sound that doesn't belong to the man I was eight days ago.
"These," I rasp, squeezing, watching the flesh spill between my fingers. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She’s gasping and way she’s looking at me with a smile and open mouth that goes straight to my cock. I feel myself harden even more inside her, thickening until she gasps at the stretch.
"You feel that?" I thrust deeper. My hand kneads her breast with the kind of desperate hunger I stopped pretending I could control. "That's what watching you does to me."
"West—" Her voice is barely there.
I lean forward, changing the angle, and take her nipple into my mouth. Not gentle. I suck hard, teeth grazing, tongue circling rough and fast while my hips keep driving into her. She cries out—a sharp, keening sound—and her back bows off the bed, pushing more of herself into my mouth.
I switch to the other breast. Bite down just enough to feel her walls clamp around me so tight I see white.
"I love these," I pant against her skin, the words coming ragged between thrusts. "The way they bounce when I'm inside you—" Thrust. "How full they are in my hands—" Thrust. "How they move every single time I—"
She grunts. That sound. Small and desperate and involuntary, like pleasure is being wrung out of her faster than she can process it. Her hips are rocking up to meet me now, frantic, graceless, chasing the rhythm with her whole body.
I palm both breasts at once, rough and possessive, thumbs dragging over her nipples, watching them stiffen and flush darker under my hands.
She's arching into my grip and my thrusts, pressing herself harder against my palms, and her mouth is open, breath hitching in stuttered gasps that match my thrusts.
"So beautiful," I groan. My hips snap harder. I can't slow down. Don't want to. "I want to cover them. Want to watch myself come all over you—" The words slip out raw and unfiltered and I feel her react before I hear it—her pussy clenching around me in a spasm so tight my rhythm breaks.
"West—" Half-sob, half-prayer.
I'm panting now. Sweat beading along my hairline, sliding down my spine. My hands won't stop moving on her—squeezing, kneading, pinching and pulling her nipples between my fingers and watching her body jolt and clench with every rough touch, making me harder, hungrier, more desperate.
"I can feel you tightening," I manage, voice wrecked. My thumb circles her nipple—fast, relentless—while my other hand grips her hip to hold her steady against my thrusts. "You're close already—"
"I'm—" Her head drops back. Eyes closed. Mouth open. A flush spreading down her neck and across her chest, turning her skin the color of crushed roses. "I'm close already—I can't—"
Her body is moving with mine now—hips lifting, meeting each thrust with a desperate roll that takes me impossibly deeper. Her hands twist in the sheets so hard her knuckles go white.
I lean down and press my mouth to the valley between her breasts. Taste salt. Feel her heart hammering against my lips like a fist trying to break free.
"Then let go," I pant against her skin. "Let me feel it."
I want to remember this. How she looks stretched around me and shaking apart.
How we move together—instinct, not instruction.
Like we've already done this a thousand times.
Like our bodies knew before we did. How the bracelet catches light on her wrist as her hands claw at the sheets above her head, knuckles white, tendons straining.
Her beautiful face—eyes squeezed shut, teeth sunk into her lower lip so hard I'm surprised she's not drawing blood—every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the place where I'm buried inside her. Where she's soaked and swollen and gripping me so tight I can feel her pulse around my cock.
She starts making these sounds—small, helpless, mewing noises from the back of her throat that she doesn't seem to know she's producing. Each thrust pulls another one from her, higher and more desperate than the last, and every single one goes straight to the base of my spine.
I'm panting through my teeth, chest heaving, and I can't slow it down. Can't control it. Every time she clenches—involuntary, rhythmic, her body begging before her mouth can form the words—my lungs forget how to work.
Her hips are rolling up to meet me now. Not waiting.
Chasing. Greedy little lifts off the mattress that change the angle just enough to make us both groan.
Her thighs are trembling on my shoulders, toes curling against the air behind my head, and she's arching her spine to take me deeper—deeper than should be possible—like she wants to feel me in her chest.
I want to memorize all of it. The slick sound of our bodies meeting.
The way her stomach muscles flutter under her skin.
The sheen of sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat.
The way those desperate, keening sounds are getting louder, closer together, more frantic—building toward something that's going to shatter both of us.
I change the angle—fractionally, instinctively—and she cries out.
"Right there—don't change anything—"
I don't. I hold the angle. Hold the depth. My thumb finds her clit between us—swollen, sensitive—and circles it in tight, fast strokes timed to each thrust.
"West—I'm—"
"Look at me."
Her eyes open. Dark. Desperate. Locked on mine.
"Let me watch you."
She comes with her eyes on me—mouth open, body bowing off the bed, inner walls clenching so hard the sensation nearly drags me over with her. A sound tears from her throat that's somewhere between my name and something language hasn't invented yet. Her thighs shake violently against my shoulders.
I hold still inside her. Feeling every ripple. Every aftershock. My jaw aches from the effort of not following her over.
Not yet. Not this time.
She's still trembling when I ease her legs down. Kiss the inside of one knee. Then the other.
"I need a second," she pants. "Actually—no I don't. What's next?"
I almost laugh. Instead I say, "Get on top. Face away from me."
She hesitates, straddling me in reverse. Looks back over her shoulder, hair curtaining one eye.
"I've never done this."
"I know." My hands settle on her hips—thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above her pelvis. "That's the point. Lower yourself. Slow."
She does. Inch by inch. From this angle I can see everything—the elegant taper of her waist, the curve of her spine flexing as she adjusts, the way her body opens to take me in.
She sinks down fully and the sound she makes—strangled, surprised, wrecked—resonates in my chest.
"This is—you feel different like this—"
"How does it feel?"
"Big. Full. Like—" She shifts experimentally. "—everywhere."
My hands slide up her sides. Back down. Settling at her hips with possessive weight. "Start moving. Find what works."
She does. Tentative at first—rocking slowly, testing the angle. Then faster as she discovers the rhythm, her confidence building with each roll of her hips. Her ass bouncing on me with each movement.
I'm mesmerized. I've never watched her from this angle. Never seen the way her back muscles ripple when she moves. Never had this view of exactly how her body takes mine.
My hand comes down on her ass. No warning. The smack echoes in the quiet room.
She gasps—sharp, surprised—and clenches around me hard enough to make me groan.
"You liked that."
She's breathing hard. "I—yes."
"Say it."
"I liked it." Her voice is thin. Wanting.
"Want more?"
"Yes—please—"
I spank her again. Harder. Watch the skin bloom from pale to pink under my palm. Feel her grip me tighter with every connection—a feedback loop of sensation that's making it increasingly difficult to think.
"Ride me harder."
She does. Bouncing faster. Chasing the heat.
Smack.
She moans again, head falling back. The line of her throat catches the light and I want to bite it. Want to mark every part of her.
"That's it. Take what you need."
Smack. The decisive one. Hard enough that I'll see my handprint on her tomorrow. Hard enough that when she sits on the plane—
"Tomorrow you're going to feel this," I tell her. "Every time you shift, you're going to remember me."
"Yes—" She's riding frantically now. Getting desperate. Her body coiling tight—I can feel it, the way her rhythm stutters, the way she's tightening around me in pulses.
She leans back, braces her palms on my thighs. Her nails dig in—sharp crescents biting into muscle—and drag down.
I groan. The sting is perfect. Necessary.