Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
EARL
S he recoils at my deliberately cruel words.
But silently she raises herself and sits astride me. Her soft wet pussy squelches on my thigh and I feel how it throbs for my cock. So … she wants me with every fiber in her body, but she absolutely loathes wanting me. I see it in the way she glares at me, her clenched hands, her pert breasts rising and falling with sharp breaths. And I savor it. Her anger is my feast, feeding that dark, twisted part of me that thrives on knowing I’ve gotten under her skin. And hurt her.
And yet, something in me stirs, an old, buried instinct that flinches at treating her like this. It pricks at the edges of my resolve, threatening to soften me, but I shove it away quickly.
My eyes trail over her body, taking in every detail.
She was beautiful before—achingly so—but now, she’s something else entirely. Time has honed her into a vision so impossibly breathtaking, it’s almost painful. Her curves, her lips, the slight flush coloring her cheeks—I can’t stop looking, can’t stop remembering how utterly consumed I used to be by her.
Even knowing what a shallow creature she is, I can’t fight it. The desire coils low in my stomach, a visceral, demanding force I can’t ignore. It’s maddening.
“Do that thing you used to do,” I say, my voice low and rough.
A sigh escapes her lips—soft, resigned—and she rises up on her knees and repositions herself over my rock-hard cock. Then she lowers the lips of her sex onto the head of my cock and squeezes, then massages it with her inner muscles. I exhale slowly. Only she, only she knows how to do this properly. Her hips move in a slow snake-like dance, teasing, torturing. My control is hanging by a thread. She’s so wet, so warm, so delicious.
Her moans start soft, stifled, as if she’s trying to hold back, but they break free despite her efforts. That sound—God, that sound—it’s been years, but it undoes me, just like it used to.
The way she moves against me is pure memory and instinct, like we’ve fallen back into the rhythm of who we once were. She’s riding me now, and the rush of sensation and sweetness is incredible.
But it’s not sweet. Not really. It’s selfish, raw, a desperate grasp for everything we’ve both lost. Every movement is a demand, a silent plea to take more, to give more, until there’s nothing left of either of us.
For a brief moment, my mind drifts to Charles— she was planning to do all this with him. The thought sets something dark and primal loose inside me.
I grab her hips and impale her fully on my thick cock, savoring the way her eyes widen with the sudden stretch as her body yields and her tight warmth wraps around me. She takes all of me. I meet her gaze, and for a moment, we’re locked there, staring into each other’s eyes, the pleasures of the past and the fire of the present mingling.
Her hazel eyes are almost all pupils with the same hunger clawing at my chest. It’s like she’s daring me to break, daring me to give in completely. I grip her hips tighter, dragging her up and down slowly, inch by inch, and the soft gasp that escapes her lips sends a shiver through me.
She clenches her muscles around me and I feel every inch of her, every pulse and quiver, and the intensity is unbearable, a mix of pleasure and torment.
“You feel … incredible,” I murmur, the words slipping out unbidden, raw and unfiltered.
She leans closer, her silky hair brushing against my chest, her breaths mingling with mine. Her lips part, but no words come, only a soft, broken moan that sends heat rushing through me. I thrust upward again, the motion forcing her to take me deeper into her slick heat, to feel every inch of me stretching her, filling her. Her nails bite into my shoulders. I welcome the sting, the grounding pain amidst the storm of sensation.
Her head falls back, exposing the tender curve of her throat. I can’t resist. I lean forward, pressing my lips to her skin, tasting the salt and warmth of her. My teeth graze her neck, as I suck her neck hard, enough to leave a mark, to claim her as mine. Her moan is loud and uninhibited, and it sends a thrill through me, a primal satisfaction.
“Look at me when you fuck me,” I demand, my voice rough.
Her eyes snap open and lock onto mine, and it’s like the world tilts, narrowing down to just us.
She looks at me as if I’m the only thing that matters in the world as she moves above me, her hips rocking and circling, and her walls squeezing me with every motion. I drown in her. My thrusts meet hers, harder, more demanding, each one driving us closer to the edge, closer to losing ourselves completely.
Fucking her feels unreal—it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
She kisses me and her breath mingles with mine, soft and sweet, carrying a hint of something that’s purely her. The taste of her floods my senses, familiar and maddening. I can’t fight it anymore. The memories … they come rushing back with a force that almost knocks the breath out of me.
The way we used to be … reckless, unrestrained, consumed by each other.
Her lips move against mine, urgent, persuasive, passionate, intoxicating, but beneath it lies something else—a bittersweet ache, a reminder of everything we once had and everything we lost. I can taste our teenage years, the laughter, the stolen moments, the promises we made when we thought we’d have forever.
And then it hits me. The betrayal. The knife she drove into my back when she thought I wasn’t there, the words that burned the world I built around her into ashes. The pain cuts through the sweetness like a blade.
A choked sound escapes me, part groan, part growl. My fingers dig into her arms as I push her away, breaking the kiss with a sharp, ragged breath. Her lips are swollen, her chest is heaving, her hazel eyes wide and shimmering with confusion.
I stare into her eyes, and for a moment, all I can feel is rage—rage at her for breaking me, at myself for still wanting her, for still craving her even after everything.
“You don’t get to do this,” I snarl.
She looks at me, perplexed. “You don’t want me to kiss you? I’m your wife.”
“And it doesn’t mean what you think it means. It means what I fucking say it means.”
Her lips part, but no words come. The silence stretches between us. I roll her onto the mattress and look down at her. Her hair splayed out like a dark halo, her body trembling.
How could she look so angelic and be such a cheap whore?
My hands open her legs, rough and demanding. She gasps, but there’s no protest—only the soft, desperate sound of her surrender. I push into her tight heat again. She arches beneath me, her body welcoming me in a way that makes my head spin and my resolve shatter.
There’s no tenderness left.
All the softness we shared only moments ago has vanished. All that is left is something raw, frantic, a clash of need and anger that neither of us can control. I thrust into her mercilessly, relentlessly, my movements unrelenting, driven by a dark fury inside me. Her moans fill the room and they only spur me on, dragging me further into the madness of her.
The sight of her—flushed, trembling, completely undone—makes my chest ache with something I can’t name, something I can’t bear. I squeeze my eyes shut instead, letting the old memory of her burn into my mind.
But that memory is worse. It drags me back to another time, another place. When I believed she was everything to me. When I was totally convinced that she was the love of my life. She and only she would do. The sweetness of her, the way she used to whisper my name like a prayer—it all crashes into me now making me feel bitter.
I hate her for making me feel this way. For breaking me and still holding the pieces in her hands.
I open my eyes and pretend she is a street whore I paid for the night. Her belly is full of my cum and now I’m going to fill her pussy with it. I’ll fill her ass with my seed too. I don’t last long. The intensity, the heat, it’s too much. When I come, it’s with a force that leaves me trembling, my hands gripping her hips as though letting go will destroy me.
She’s not far behind. Her body tightens around me, her cries turning into broken, gasping sobs as she thrashes beneath me, clutching at my arms as though I’m the only thing anchoring her to the world. She calls out my name—or rather my middle name. She used to call me that all the time. A soft and sweet sound I haven’t heard in years.
“James,” she calls, her voice thick with emotion, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
I nearly choke on the flood of feelings that surge through me. It’s too easy to fall, to forgive, to let myself believe for even a second that we could go back. I hate how weak she makes me feel, how easily she strips away the walls I’ve built.
Her arms wrap around me, holding me close as she tries to steady her breaths. I should pull away. I know I should, but I can’t. Just for a moment, I let myself savor the way she clings to me, the way her perfume lingers in the air, and the way her body trembles against mine.
But I can’t stay. I won’t let her have that power over me again.
It takes everything I have to pull away and get off the bed. My chest feels tight as I move to grab my clothes.
I want to walk out without looking back. I look over my shoulder. She’s splayed out on the bed, her skin flushed, her hair wild, her chest rising and, between her open legs, her glistening just fucked, swollen pussy. She looks beautiful. Ravaged. And the best part is, I know I’m the one who made her feel this way. I know now. She will always be the wound that refuses to close.
I dig into the pocket of my pants and my fingers curl around my wallet. I pull out five one-hundred-dollar bills and place them on the side tab.
When I lift my gaze, she’s watching me, her hazel eyes wide with confusion and hurt.
I give her a dry smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes, and turn away. I shut the door behind me and stand in the corridor for a second. Then I make my way back to my own bedroom.