Chapter 29 #2
I work him in slow, filthy rolls, every drag squeezing him from tip to base like I’m milking him on purpose.
He’s thick and hard inside me, stretching me open with every inch I don’t let him drive.
The heat in my belly is winding tight, molten, and I know he feels it in the way my walls grip him, holding him hostage inside me.
His chest is a furnace against my back, his breath breaking rough against my ear.
I can feel the tremor in his thighs, the twitch in his hips every time I grind down hard enough to make him throb deep inside me.
The belt above us screams under the strain, leather creaking as his arms flex—but he’s still holding. Barely.
I fist his hair and drag his head down until my lips graze the heat of his throat. “Feel that? Feel what you do to me?” I whisper, clenching hard around him as I sink down slow, taking every thick inch until my spine arches.
His groan is guttural and wrecked, his whole body vibrating with restraint. I roll my hips again, my clit catching just right, and smirk when his breath stutters. “You’re not fucking me,” I murmur, “I’m fucking you.”
My nails dig down his thigh, my pace deliberate—slick, obscene pulls followed by deep, teasing pushes that keep him right on the edge. The sound of it fills the room, wet and shameless, and his breathing turns feral behind me.
He tries to thrust once—just once—and I slam back into him, stealing the rhythm. “No,” I growl, tightening around him until I feel his cock twitch. “You’re going to hold it. You’re going to—”
The belt snaps.
In the next breath, he’s on me—his hands clamping my hips before shoving me forward so my palms slap against the cold porcelain of the sink. My head tips forward with the force, a gasp ripping out of me—cut off when he drives into me from behind, burying himself to the hilt.
“Mine,” he snarls against my neck, his voice raw from holding back too long. His grip bruises, each brutal thrust rocking the sink beneath us, the mirror rattling with every impact. My breath fogs the glass in sharp bursts, my reflection a flushed, wrecked blur.
His grip on my wrists tightens, dragging them high at the small of my back until my shoulders pull back, my chest jutting forward. The position forces me upright, my spine arched, his body caging mine from behind as he drives into me with sharp, punishing thrusts.
“Look,” he growls, shoving me closer to the mirror without letting go. My reflection stares back—flushed, hair mussed, lips parted around a moan—as he towers over me, eyes locked on mine in the glass like a predator that’s finally sunk its teeth in.
“You see that?” His voice is a dark rasp at my ear, each word timed with a deep, claiming stroke. “That’s how you should have looked every fucking day these last ten years.”
I try to glance away, but he twists my wrists just enough to pull a gasp from my throat. “Eyes up,” he snaps, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. “Watch yourself take it.”
The mirror shakes faintly in its frame with every thrust, my breasts bouncing freely in time with the hard rhythm of his hips.
His chest is a furnace against my back, his breath hot at my ear, and I can see in the reflection how wild his expression has gone—dark eyes, jaw clenched, a sheen of sweat at his temples.
“You see how wet you are, little viper?” he demands, his words rough and low. “Dripping down my cock, begging for more without saying a single fucking word.”
His grip on my wrists tightens, every brutal thrust shoving me toward the mirror until I’m staring at the flushed, messy reflection of myself taking him.
“Don’t look away,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re going to watch every second of it.”
His free hand slides down my stomach, finding my clit and rubbing in fast, ruthless circles that match the snap of his hips. My thighs shake, my breathing stutters, and the heat coiling in my belly starts to climb toward the breaking point.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice sharp enough to cut through the haze in my head. “Tell me you’re about to come.”
I try to swallow it back, but his fingers press harder, his cock driving deep enough to knock the air from my lungs. “Say it,” he bites out, twisting my wrists just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Henny, I’m—” My voice breaks into a moan. “I’m going to come.”
“Louder,” he orders, his eyes burning into mine through the reflection. “I want to hear it while you watch how beautifully you fall apart for me.”
The words tear from me, raw and shameless. “I’m going to come!”
His thrusts turn relentless, each one timed with the insistent pressure of his fingers until my body snaps—clenching hard around him, my moan fogging the mirror.
I see myself break apart in the glass, see my face twist with release, see the sharp, possessive satisfaction in his expression before he groans and drives in deep, holding me there while he finishes inside me.
My breathing is still ragged, my pulse thundering in my ears, when his thrusts slow. He stays buried inside me, his grip on my wrists still firm but no longer punishing—just holding.
Then his weight leans in, his chest pressing warm and solid to my back as his head lowers between my shoulder blades. His breath ghosts over my damp skin before his lips find me—slow, unhurried kisses pressed along the curve of my spine.
The mirror shows us both now, not wild and frenzied but still bound together, his hands anchoring me in place like he’s not ready to let me go. I can feel the heat of him inside me, the faint tremor still running through his body.
He exhales there against my skin, the sound low and almost content. “You drive me fucking insane,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing another kiss over the dip between my shoulder blades before he finally eases his grip on my wrists.
My arms fall forward, but I don’t move away.
I just stand there, feeling the press of his mouth, the lingering weight of him, the way he stays close like he’s keeping something for himself even in the quiet.
Before I can move, his hands slide from my wrists to my hips—steady, certain—and he pulls me back into him.
I straighten, my spine meeting the heat of his chest, and he fits himself around me without leaving me, arms wrapping low and sure. His head dips, his lips pressing to the space between my shoulder blades again, lingering there like he’s not just kissing skin but breathing something into me.
“Look,” he murmurs, voice rough but quiet. My eyes lift to the mirror, and what stares back is no longer the wrecked, wild mess from moments ago—still raw, but steadier, grounded in the way his arms hold me. He’s not afraid I’ll slip away. We both know I won’t.
For a moment, he just watches me in the mirror, his mouth close enough to my ear that his breath blurs a faint patch of glass.
“You know,” he says, voice low and certain, “I get it now.”
“Get what?” I ask, though my voice barely makes it past my throat.
His tattooed hand slides over my belly, fingers spread like he’s staking claim to ground left barren too long. “A garden that won’t bloom.”
Instinct has me reaching for his hand, but he catches mine mid-motion, threading our fingers together and locking us there—so in the reflection, there’s no mistaking his hold.
“Baby,” he murmurs, guiding our joined hands up to press firm over my heart, “I’m going to help you plant something here so fierce it’ll root in your bones, wind through every hollow place, and strangle the emptiness.
When it blooms, it’ll be wild enough to spill from you like it was always meant to—and you won’t ever forget whose hands helped sow it. ”
For a long beat, there’s nothing but our reflection and the steady thrum of my heartbeat under our joined hands. His chest is a wall of heat at my back, his breath steady against my ear, every word he just spoke still settling deep.
In the mirror, my face shifts—small, unguarded—but he sees it. His mouth tips, not into a smile, but into something knowing.
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around his. “I love you.”
His gaze locks on mine in the glass, and for a second, his jaw works like he’s holding something back. When he answers, it’s low, steady, and certain—weighted like it’s been a long time coming. “I know, Lou. I’ve always fucking known that.”
“Good.” I didn’t need him to say it back—I needed to hear me say it.
He unthreads our hands, his palm gliding back down over my stomach while his other arm cinches tighter around my waist, holding me there like he’s not done—but not yet ready to move either.
He dips his head, pressing his mouth to the side of my neck. The kiss is slow, lingering, more a claim than a comfort. In the mirror, I see his eyes close for a beat before he looks up again, gaze locking on mine.
With that same unshakable certainty, he says, “Now let me make sure you don’t ever forget it.”
But he doesn’t move. He just holds me there, the heat between us thick as summer air, the next moment balanced like a seed in the dark—ready to split, ready to take root.