Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
PUT ME ON MY DAMN KNEES
LOUISIANA
Listen, I’m no prude but I have never been savagely fucked with a flashlight on the hood of a cop car.
And fuck, do I want round two.
But do I get to lay here and enjoy my post orgasmic bliss? Hell no.
Henry pulls me to my feet, his hazel eyes dark—burning with that quiet, controlled fire that always makes my knees want to buckle. That look alone could make me submit, and he knows it. But the brat in me? She refuses to go down that easy.
Then he kisses me—softly. A contradiction. A warning. A promise.
Before I can catch my breath, he pushes me to my knees, slow and commanding, like it’s always been his right.
He holds the flashlight out in front of me, slick and dirty. The corner of his mouth twitches as he says, “Now lick it fucking clean.”
Part of me wants to snap at him. Bite back. Push until one of us breaks. But the other part—the part that aches for his approval, that wants to show him I can play just as filthy—takes over.
I run my tongue up the side of the flashlight, never breaking eye contact. Slow. Deliberate. His big frame is mostly swallowed by the dark, but the headlights catch just enough to light up that sharp jaw and those wicked hazel eyes watching me like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.
He thinks he’s in control, and for now I let him believe he is.
Then just as I wrap my lips around the end of the flashlight he throws it behind him. “I’m going to fuck this pretty mouth.” His thumb pulls my bottom lip down and I try to bite the fucker. “I won’t be gentle and you’ll take all of me because if I remember correctly, you can.”
“Well, I don’t. I’ve sucked so much dick since then they all blur together.”
He smirks at me and pulls his zipper down, takes his thick cock out and my mouth waters. Dicks weren’t supposed to be pretty but Henry Wilder has the prettiest dick I’ve ever seen. Long, thick, a slight curve to the left. It was made for me.
Before he can say a word I bring my cuffed hand up and wrap around his velvety length, I then watch as he flexes his hands at his sides, his eyes never leaving me. I pump his length a few times with my hand before sticking my tongue out and slapping his cock on it.
“No fucking biting,” he hisses, voice all grit and warning.
I look up at him, heart pounding and lips parted—and I wink. Because I can’t help myself, and because I know exactly what that does to him.
Then I wrap my mouth around his cock, slow and warm and full of intent.
He groans—deep, guttural—and his hand immediately fists in my hair. I feel his thighs tense beneath me, his control fraying as I take him deeper, inch by inch, like I’ve got all the time in the world.
I want him to feel it. All of it.
The slick heat of my mouth. The tease of my tongue. The drag of my breath as I fight to take more.
I rest my hands on his thighs, digging my nails in just enough to leave a mark. I know he wants that—wants to feel me hold on while he feeds me every inch, while I surrender without a single sound but the wet slide of my lips and the hum of satisfaction in my throat.
I start slow—deliberate. Bobbing my head, inch by inch, dragging my tongue along the underside of his cock, letting him feel every slow stroke as I take more of him with each pass. I want to drive him insane. I want to make him lose that tight grip he’s got on control.
But he’s not letting me have it.
His fingers tighten in my hair, and before I can react, he shoves my head down hard. I feel the thick weight of him hit the back of my throat, and I gag, my body jolting at the sudden intrusion.
He yanks me back just enough to breathe, but not enough to pull away. His voice is rough and low, laced with command.
“Relax that God damn throat and take me.”
My eyes water, my jaw aches—but I don’t stop. I steady myself, one hand braced against his thigh, nails biting into skin, the other curled tight into a fist. And I look up at him through the tears, through the heat, and nod.
Not because I have to.
Because I want to show him what the fuck I can take.
He starts again, brutal and relentless, setting the pace and holding nothing back. I force myself to relax, willing my throat open, and when I do—he bottoms out, his hips pressed flush to my face, his balls hitting my chin with a low, satisfying slap.
“Good girl,” he rasps, voice wrecked and breathless. “Good fucking girl.”
The words hit harder than the pace ever could. My eyes flicker up to meet his, and I know he sees it—the way I flare under the praise, the way it sinks deep and clutches at something raw in me.
I tighten my mouth around him, working my tongue with intention, swallowing him down like I was made for it. Then I slide one hand up and give his balls a sharp tug, and he groans—loud, broken, undone—before he spills down my throat.
I don’t waste a drop.
He jerks me to my feet, mouth crashing into mine with a desperate kind of hunger. I kiss him back, letting him taste what he left behind on my tongue, letting him have it all.
Then, without a word, he pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the cuffs. The metal falls away, and I exhale as blood rushes back into my wrists. The skin is raw, angry-red where he bound me too tightly, and for a second—just a second—I see it hit him.
Regret.
Not for what we did, not for the control—but for how harsh he’d handled me. His fingers trace the marks, gentler now, reverent even. Then he leans down and presses slow, lingering kisses over each tender spot like he’s trying to take the sting back into himself.
“Now that you’ve had your fun, sit the fuck down.”
Henry looks at me, eyebrow raised. “Actually, help me brush the gravel off my knees first.”
He looks at me suspiciously as he bends down helping me brush the gravel off. Once finished I turn his hulking form towards the drivers seat; he tries to tuck himself back in his pants but I stop him. “Oh, no you don’t. Keep that cock out and sit. Now.”
He hesitates just slightly and I reach for him, trailing a hand up his neck and watch him lean into me. “You had your fun, now it’s my turn.”
“Lou—”
I press a finger to his mouth, silencing whatever smug shit he was about to say.
“My ass is probably covered in handprint bruises,” I murmur, voice low and sticky-sweet. “You fucked me with a flashlight…then made me lick it clean.”
I lean in, let my lips graze his.
“It’s my turn now.”
His gaze lingers on me a second longer before he finally nods his head, “Good, and unbutton the fucking shirt.”
I look at him—too damn big for this cramped blacked out SUV, like some wild beast trapped in a cage. Maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s stupid, but I crawl right into his lap anyway.
I catch the way his throat swallows—slow, steady—and realize the man he was moments ago, all raw edges and fear for my safety, is gone. What’s left is quieter. Wounded. Fragile beneath all that steel.
Even though I want to hide it, I want him to see—the shaky part of me that needs him, that’s scared to let go but desperate to try, because I know I can’t give him up again.
His hazel eyes lock onto mine, intense and searching, like he’s trying to read every hidden fear and hope tangled beneath my skin.
I let my thumb linger on his mustache, feeling the small shiver that betrays his usual calm.
“I know, after everything with Evie, you’ve carried that weight alone—felt like a failure like no one else could understand.
I’ve watched you shoulder it, seen the way it’s worn you down more than anything else life’s thrown at you.
But you’re not a failure. Not to Maddox, not to Evie, and not to me.
And ass whooping aside, I’m sorry for scaring you—not because of what I did, but because you ever had to feel that way at all. ”
He brings his forehead to mind and lets out a ragged breath. “She’s fucking unstable Lou, she always has been.”
I smirk at him. “But I’m not.”
He hearty laugh vibrates against me as I straddle his lap. “No, just fucking feral.”
I smirk, but my heart’s beating like a war drum in my chest.
“Well,” I say, voice soft but sure, “you’ve always been the only one who could keep up.”
I pause, let the weight settle between us. No more hiding behind jokes or bravado.
My throat tightens as I look at him—really look—and for once, I don’t mask a damn thing. “I’m tired of always having to let you go,” I admit, voice cracking around the truth. “Because the truth is…I can’t. I never could.”
His smirk fades like smoke.
For a moment, he just stares at me—like the words punched through his ribs and left him breathless.
Like he wasn’t ready to hear what he’s always needed.
His jaw clenches, not in anger, but restraint.
I see it in his eyes—how hard he’s fighting not to fall apart right here, not to grab me and hold on like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
He swallows hard, voice low and raw. “Say that again.”
A whisper, but it cuts straight through me.
Not because he didn’t hear me the first time—but because he needs to. Needs it like air. Like absolution. Like the fucking truth finally showed up and called him home.
He pulls me tighter, his hands firm but gentle on my hips, and suddenly all the weight between us—the pain, the scars, the fights we’ve fought—melts into the heat of his touch. His lips brush mine, soft but demanding, and I give in, surrendering not just to the moment, but to him.
Then, like it always does, all this tension fucking combusts. We’re a tangle of lips and teeth, hands and mouths, caught in the messy blur where one ends and the other begins—where nothing else matters but the fire raging between us.
I reach between us, wrap my hand around the thick length of him, and line him up with my soaked center. My other hand knots in his too-fucking-long, sexy hair, anchoring me to him like I’d fall apart without it.
“Breathe, Henny,” I whisper, teasing, even though I’m the one holding my breath.