Chapter 18 #2
My eyes fly up to his as he fits his cock at my entrance and pushes forward. The burn is sharper than I expected, my breath fracturing on it, and his fingers dig into my hip to hold me still.
Despite all the prep and my slick, it hurts more than I expected. My first time with the security guard never prepared me for someone like Orien, and my body stiffens beneath him.
“Breathe,” he commands.
I try. My fingers find his forearms and grip them, and his focus stays on my face as he pushes deeper, inch by deliberate inch, until he bottoms out.
The stretch of being filled completely pulls a whine from me, my back arching off the bed, muscles straining as my body struggles to accommodate his size.
“Fuck,” I gasp, the word breaking on a half-sob. “You’re—”
“It’s okay.” He mouths along my jaw. “You’ll get used to it.”
He holds still, and I hate him for his patience while I’m already coming apart. His thumb traces slow circles over my hip, and I shift restlessly beneath him, my body clenching and unclenching around his thick shaft.
“Please,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“Please, what?”
Ashamed by my need, I turn away.
He hooks a finger beneath my chin and turns me back. “Say it.”
The word costs me. “Move.”
His hips roll forward in a single deep grind that punches the air from my lungs and leaves me with nowhere to go, his weight pinning me beneath him.
“Like that?”
I can’t answer past the whine building in my throat. He does it again, and stars burst across my eyelids.
My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, trying to set a pace he refuses to follow. His hand finds my hip and holds it down.
“Tell me what you need,” he says, unhurried, like he isn’t watching me come apart.
What I need is for him to never stop. What I need is to never have to ask.
“Harder,” I manage. “Please.”
He cups the back of my head before he drives forward, and the sound he pulls from me is nothing I could have prepared for.
“There it is,” he purrs against my throat. “That’s what I wanted.”
My nails find his back and drag, which only encourages him.
His mouth moves to the spot below my ear and stays there, not kissing so much as claiming, teeth clamping down without breaking skin, and I tilt my head back without even thinking about it.
He takes the offering, working his way to the hinge of my jaw and down to my collarbone, leaving a stinging kiss in each place he touches.
“You can—” I start. “I want you to—”
His mouth never leaves my skin. “But not yet.”
I want to argue. I can’t.
His hand slides between us to wrap around my dick, and the embarrassing moan that escapes fills the room. His thumb drags across the head, and I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from moaning again.
“Stop that,” he says without looking up.
I stop, my mouth falling open.
The fullness of him and the rough drag of his palm on my dick become too much, and something gives way inside me that I didn’t realize I was holding. Tears slip down my temples and into my hair before I can stop them.
“I’ve got you.” He grinds into me, deep and slow. “Let go for me.”
I don’t wipe the tears away or apologize for them as I hold on, one hand clutching at his shoulder, the other wrapped around his wrist where his hand works my dick.
“Orien,” I gasp out. “I’m going to—”
His pace doesn’t slow. “Give it to me.”
My body responds without hesitation, back arching off the bed as I come apart in his fist, my inner walls clenching and releasing around him, my cry smothered by where my mouth rests at his throat.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t gentle, working me through it until the sensitivity crosses past the line of pleasure, and I writhe beneath him, tugging at the hand still stroking my now sensitive dick.
“Too much—”
“I know,” he says again, and keeps going.
He works me through it without mercy, hand and hips moving until I’m twitching and oversensitive and have to bite down on my own lip to keep from begging him to stop, or not to.
Only when my body goes slack does he pull his hand away and grip my hip hard enough to hold me in place as his pace shortens, deepens, his breath coming faster, the flush across his chest climbing his throat.
“Tell me you want it,” he says.
“I want it.” No hesitation. “Come inside. Let me feel it.”
“Wasn’t planning to pull out,” he says, and grinds deep.
His cock pulses inside me, liquid heat flooding my channel, and the sensation of being pumped full draws a whimper of pleasure from me that I’ll be embarrassed about later.
For a moment, neither of us moves, and his forehead drops to mine, breath ragged between us. “Better?”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and his thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away the evidence of tears I didn’t mean to shed. The gentleness of the gesture undoes me all over again, and I swallow hard to fight down a fresh wave.
With a satisfied rumble, he carefully withdraws, and the drag of his cock leaving my body sends a shiver of aftershock through me.
Orien brushes a strand of hair from my sweaty forehead. “Stay.”
Unable to move even if I wanted to, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, while Orien disentangles himself and slips from the bed.
Pleasant soreness lingers in places I never realized could ache, and my mind is mercifully quiet.
I should reach for the comforter to cover myself, but the aftermath of pleasure leaves my limbs too heavy to obey.
Orien moves through the room, picking up our discarded clothes and setting them on the dresser rather than the floor. There’s something almost reassuring about the way he doesn’t turn the aftermath into a conversation or demand reassurance that what happened between us was good.
He disappears into the small bathroom attached to the bedroom, and the sound of running water drifts out, followed by the soft click of the medicine cabinet opening and closing.
When he returns, he carries a glass of water in one hand and a damp cloth in the other.
“Here.” He offers me the glass. “You should drink.”
I take it with unsteady hands, and the cool liquid comes as a welcome shock to my raw throat. Orien watches me drink, ensuring I finish it before he takes the empty glass and sets it on the nightstand.
“Turn over,” he says, the words not quite a command.
I do as he asks, rolling onto my stomach, and he settles beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him. The cool cloth strokes over my back, wiping away the evidence of what we’ve done, and I bite my lip to keep a sound from escaping at the gentleness of the gesture.
No one has ever taken care of me this way. The simple fact of being tended to, of having someone see to my comfort without being asked, brings on a burn of tears that I bury in the comforter.
Orien works his way down my body, wiping away the slick from between my ass cheeks and thighs. There’s no attempt to turn the act of cleaning up into another form of seduction. Only quiet efficiency with the same careful attention he applies to everything he does.
When he finishes, he sets the cloth on the nightstand, pulls up the comforter, and settles beside me on the bed, close enough for the heat of his body to warm my side without touching.
He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t demand conversation or explanation or reassurance that what happened between us meant something.
He just waits, giving me space to process in my own time.
The loft is still around us, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside the window. Snow falls in fat flakes beyond the glass, catching the light from the streetlamp below and turning it to gold.
My lashes drift closed without my permission, exhaustion finally catching up with me now that the adrenaline has faded.
The last few days crash down all at once. In only a few days, I thought I was leaving the Blue Note, never to see Orien again, then the meeting with the family that ended in disappointment, and the drive back to the Blue Note.
It leaves me wrung out and hollow in the best and worst way possible.
I should gather my clothes, call a car, and return to my apartment. I should put distance between myself and the man beside me before what happened between us becomes something I can’t walk away from.
But I can’t bring myself to leave this bed.
So I don’t.
Instead, I turn toward him, curling onto my side, and his arm comes around my waist, pulling me closer until my head rests on his chest. His heart beats a steady rhythm beneath my ear in counterpoint to my own racing pulse, and his hand strokes my back in slow, even circles.
“Stay,” he says again.
I nod against his chest, too tired to do anything else, and his arm tightens around me, holding me close as sleep begins to claim me. My eyes drift closed, then open one last time to find him watching me with a softness I’ve never seen before.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words thick with approaching sleep.
His fingers thread through my hair, the touch impossibly gentle after everything else. “Sleep, trouble. I’ve got you.”
And despite every reason why I should doubt, I believe him.