Chapter 69
Harper
With that, he thrusts into me again with such precision, I’m sure I can feel him in my throat. I’m wet and leaking all over our bed.
He feels too big. Too much. So intense. So very good. I groan.
His hold on my throat tightens.
"Are you okay?"
I nod.
“Anytime you want to stop, simply triple tap my arm.”
I nod again.
A pleased look lights up his eyes.
"I’m going to pleasure you, baby, make no mistake."
Inch by inch, he pulls out of me. Then, with that same unerring accuracy he exhibits in the kitchen to create award winning dishes, he plunges into me again.
He hits my G-spot, and shock waves cascade up my spine.
And when he tightens his hold around my throat, dropping the air supply further, fire zips up my spine.
I’m burning up. Hurtling toward my climax already, but it’s not fast enough. I want it right now.
Oh God. I push back, trying to increase the angle of his penetration, trying to take him in deeper.
He arches an eyebrow. "I’m going to have to punish you for topping from the bottom."
With that, he pulls out, leaving me empty. Every cell in my body protests. My lips turn down. Wait, what just happened?
Without relinquishing his hold on my throat, he presses down on the small of my back. I bend over further, my cheek pressed into the mattress.
He slaps my arse with enough force that I whimper.
Each time his palm connects with my butt I cry out. Until finally, with my backside smarting, tingles running up my spine, and my clit throbbing, he rubs the pain into my skin.
I moan, feeling the cum slide down my inner thighs. He scoops it up and smears it around my puckered hole.
I’m so far gone in the pleasure-pain of the moment, I merely spread my legs wider to give him access.
“Good girl.”
I shudder.
His praise sends another burst of heat shooting through my veins. I feel like I’m high.
When he slides a finger in, it burns slightly and feels different. And forbidden. But also…arousing.
Holding my gaze, he uses his finger to carefully widen my back entrance, then slips in a second finger.
It burns more.
"You sure you want to do this?”
I nod eagerly.
My cheeks are flushed, my hair in a mess around my face. My nipples are so hard, they hurt. With his fingers around my throat, and both of us naked, we both look like we’re about to come apart.
His expression sharpens into something predatory.
It’s a look that promises me he’s about to prove a point. One I'm not going to forget in a hurry.
Uh-oh. My heart flip-flops. My stomach trembles. I’m a little scared of what he’s going to do. But also, I’m looking forward to it. My nerve endings spark.
He bends and kisses the corner of my mouth.
"You’re a goddess, and I’m going to make you come so hard. You’re going to forget everything except my name, the touch of my fingers inside you, the feel of my cock in your hole.”
He slips in a third finger, stretching me more. It’s uncomfortable, but I get used to it surprisingly quick.
"You ready for me?"
I look in his eyes and see the warmth. Knowing I can trust him and that he won’t hurt me. He’ll make sure I’m taken care of.
It gives me the courage to nod.
"Good girl."
He replaces his fingers with his dick. Thicker, blunter, so much bigger. I gulp. My stomach bottoms out. I’m nervous. But also, so very turned on. My breasts hurt. My body pings with expectation.
Then he locks his lips over mine and kisses me deeply. A melting sensation overcomes my limbs. My muscles relax. Tension bleeds out from my body. I feel pliant. Like I’m floating. Surrendering. Opening myself up to him.
And when he thrusts forward, his dick slides in past the internal circle of muscles.
A sharp, stretching ache that borders on too much radiates out. My body fights to accommodate him, to make space for the impossible width and heat of him.
He keeps kissing me through it. Soft, reverent kisses that contrast with the intensity of what's happening below.
"You're doing so well," he rumbles against my lips, vibrating through my chest. "Look at you. Taking all of me. Making room for me like you were designed for this. For me."
His hold around my throat grounds me. Reassures me. Tells me how much he wants me.
"You're incredible, Harper." His voice cracks on my name. "My woman. My wife. Mine."
The last word breaks something open in my chest that has nothing to do with the physical fullness and everything to do with the way he's holding me. The way he’s looking deeply into my eyes. Like I'm something precious he's been entrusted to care for.
He kisses me softly again, while squeezing my throat enough to reduce my air supply to a trickle. And his hardness throbs inside me.
The combination unravels me completely. I relax even more. He pushes in, burying himself to the hilt inside me.
His heartbeat picks up speed; his biceps bunch.
"Does that feel good, baby?” he asks through gritted teeth.
My breath comes in gasps. My pulse rate is through the roof. I’m so turned on, it feels like every pore in my body is filled with lust.
I nod.
Relief shows on his features. His eyes brighten. Then he slowly begins to move. Every time he thrusts inside, the friction causes me to shudder. The burn reduces, lingering at the edges and giving way to this drugging pleasure infiltrating my blood.
He picks up speed, beginning to fuck me in earnest. The next time he thrusts into me, my entire body moves up the mattress.
"I fucking adore you." He kisses me and drives into me again, hitting that secret spot deep inside.
A trembling wells up from the contact and gathers speed. He senses my oncoming climax and looks deeply into my eyes.
“Come with me." He releases his hold on my throat.
The oxygen rushes into my lungs. The lust in my bloodstream ignites into flames. It propels me toward my climax, and I shatter into a million pieces. I hear him groan as he follows me over and comes inside me.
He slumps over me, his heart beating as fast as mine. Our sweat-soaked skin melding and sticking to each other.
He pulls out of me then rolls onto his back, depositing me on his chest.
I cuddle into him, my eyelids closing. He runs his fingers down my hair, over my back, resting them possessively on the curve of my hip.
“I love you,” I whisper.
"And I love you." He kisses my forehead. “You’re mine, Ember. Mine to love. Mine to claim. Mine to protect. Always.”
"Are you going to tell me the story of how you got the scar on your cheek?" I prop my elbow on the kitchen counter and cup my chin in my hand.
We napped for a bit, and when my growling stomach woke us both up, he insisted he was going to make me brunch.
My favorite thing in this world might be my husband cooking for me.
My father used to show love the same way. Feeding people was his language.
James has that in him too, though he'd never admit it aloud.
Today he’s cooking me breakfast, dressed in a pair of gray sweats with a dishcloth slung over his shoulder. And he’s barefoot. Lucky me.
He cracks open a beer and pours me a glass of wine, insisting it's almost noon, and we're both on holiday today, so we're allowed.
I take a sip of the wine and relish the crisp, fresh notes of green apple and pear.
He scoops the scrambled eggs onto a plate. Then moves the bacon and sausages around on the other skillets. He has all four burners at work, cooking a full English breakfast. The scents make my mouth water.
"Ambush. First deployment. They had the element of surprise; we had the numbers. We handled it." He turns to me, holding the spatula. “Bullet caught my cheek. It could have been my skull.”
A cold hand clutches my heart.
It makes me realize how lucky I am to have him here. How lucky we are to have found each other.
I slide off the barstool and walk over to him, then put my arms around his waist.
"I’m so glad you weren’t wounded further."
"Me too." He wraps his muscled arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. "It happened on my first mission."
"And you went back?" I look up at him.
"I was young, foolish. Filled with bravado and idyllic visions of contributing to my country for the greater good."
"And now?" I search his features.
I wish I knew him when he was younger. Seen him without this cynicism and need to hide his emotions from the world. He’s sharing more of himself with me, so that’s a start. But I hope one day soon, he realizes that it makes you stronger, not weaker, when you open up and share what’s on your mind.
"I’m older, wiser, more measured. I’m proud of what I accomplished in the Marines. But equally happy I left when I did.”
“That last mission changed you, didn’t it?”
He looks down at me in surprise. “You sensed it?”
“You're different from when I last met you. That man was more open. I mean, you preferred to communicate in grunts even then, but you were less controlled. You didn’t have such a tight rein on your emotions.”
He turns sideways and, without letting go of me, switches off the hobs and places his spatula down.
“I’ve always liked things a certain way.
Order. Precision. I self-diagnosed as borderline OCD.
But after that mission, when I lost my team, it got worse.
I needed control. I needed every detail accounted for.
The kitchen became the one place I could manage it.
If I controlled the variables, nothing could fall apart. ”
I had guessed he struggled with it, but hearing him say it makes my chest ache. “Doing everything three time—"
“That’s the part people see.” He firms his lips. “As head chef, it helps. I have backups. Plans for every disaster. In a crisis, that’s useful.”
“But living like that, always second and third guessing yourself, must be exhausting.”
His features soften. “You understand me, and that means so much. Sharing this with you already makes me feel lighter.” He cups my cheek, “I’m so grateful I found you."