Ultimatum

Aubrey

Linden follows me into the penthouse observatory after the hearing.

The room is tucked behind glass and planters. Beyond them, the city is mostly lights and dark windows. Low lamps glow beside chairs. A table sits between two couches. No staff. No public hallway. I check the upper corners anyway.

Linden catches it. "No cameras in here," he says. "No audio."

Just us.

Linden closes the door behind him.

He's still in his suit from the hearing, jacket open now, tie gone. His shirt cuffs are unbuttoned. The wedding band is still on his left hand.

"You're staring," I say.

"I am," he agrees.

"Usually you deny things when accused," I quip.

"Usually I'm less stunned," he replies.

I grin mischievously. "By my dazzling testimony? My heroic commitment to keeping my shoes on now that my ankle finally stopped complaining?"

"By you."

Oh.

I turn toward the glass because the city is safer than his face. "Well that's certainly vague, Mr. Dunleavy."

"No, it isn't," he replies. "You told the truth about me. All of it. Then you said you loved me."

"Well, you were standing there doing the emotionally constipated billionaire version of bleeding out, so it seemed the right thing to do," I reply.

He almost laughs, but otherwise remains quiet.

"Are you waiting for me to say something?" I ask.

"Yes," he replies.

I frown. "What?"

He studies me for a moment. "What you want."

My mouth goes dry. I should say coffee. Water. Sleep. What comes out is, "I want you to stop looking like you're afraid I'm going to disappear if you touch me."

"I am afraid of that," he says.

"Don't be." I put my left hand on his chest, and his heart beats hard under my palm.

His eyes drop to my ring, then to my mouth, then back to my eyes. God help me, he's learning.

His hands come out of his pockets, slow enough that I could step away. I don't. One settles at my waist. The other lifts to my jaw.

"I want you," he says. "Not because we survived the hearing. Not because you're my wife on paper. Not because I'm trying to keep you here. I want you because I love you. Because you chose me. Because I'm tired of pretending wanting you is something I need to justify."

My knees wobble.

"Okay," I manage.

He bends, and the first kiss is careful.

For about three seconds.

Then my hand closes in his shirt and I pull. The kiss changes, hungry and rough, his hand holding my waist without trapping me. I know the difference now.

He breaks the kiss just enough to say, "You taste so fucking good."

"Say less if you want me to stay attracted to you," I reply, restarting the kiss.

"Mouthy," he manages.

"Mmm..." I moan back.

"I love your mouth." He kisses the corner of my mouth, my lower lip, my jaw, my throat, and I forget every joke I had lined up.

"Tell me," he says.

"I want..." My face goes hot because wanting things out loud is hard for me.

"You can have it," he replies.

I frown. "You don't even know what it is."

"I know it's yours to ask for," he counters.

I take two steps back.

His hand falls away at once.

"I want you," I finish.

His mouth finds the side of my neck. The bite is light at first. I tip my head without thinking, giving him more room, and his arm tightens. He bites harder, enough to make me gasp, then soothes it with his tongue.

The mark will show if I wear the wrong shirt.

My clit pulses so hard I have to bite the inside of my cheek.

"Oh my god," I say.

"At your service," he jokes.

I laugh. "Congratulations, silly."

He turns me in his arms and backs me against the glass beside the couch. His hands bracket my hips, and his body crowds me without pinning me.

This kiss isn't careful. He presses me to the glass with his hips, one hand at my waist and the other sliding into my hair. I reach for his belt, and he catches my wrist.

His ring presses against my skin. "Ask," he says.

My face burns. "You're going to make me say I want your cock again?"

He nods.

"I want your cock," I say, shaky but clear. "I want your hands. I want you to tell me what to do until I forget there was a hearing today."

His grip tightens just enough to make my stomach drop. "There's my wife."

Tonight, wife has no board clause attached. Wife because I'm still wearing the ring and still standing here.

"Say that again," I tell him.

"My wife," he finishes.

I push at his jacket. "Off."

He obeys fast enough that I almost laugh. His jacket lands over the back of the couch. His shirt follows after I drag at the buttons.

He opens my blazer and drops it on the couch. My shirt goes next, then my tank. I almost reach to cover my stomach when the cool air hits my skin.

Almost.

"My bra," I say.

He unhooks it. The straps slide down my arms. I let it fall.

Linden puts one hand at my waist and lowers his mouth to my breast. The first pull of his mouth makes my knees bend, and he catches me.

"You're gorgeous," he says against my skin.

The automatic joke rises. I make myself not say it.

"Thank you," I say.

He stills, then kisses down my chest, lower, to my stomach.

"I love you here," he says. "Here, too." His hand moves to my hip. "And here." He grips my thigh. "Especially here."

He drops to his knees and hooks his fingers into the waistband of my pants. He looks up. "May I?"

I stare at him hungrily. "Please."

He eases my shoes off one at a time, then peels my pants down with my underwear and helps me step out. Then I'm naked in the conservatory, my ring still on my hand, with Linden Dunleavy kneeling in front of me.

He lifts my left hand and kisses the ring. Then he kisses the inside of my wrist, near the scar, and I make a broken sound.

"Still mine?" he asks.

The claim is right there, the possessive edge that used to set me off.

Tonight it lands different.

I look down at him. At the dark head bent over my hand. At the place his mouth just was.

"Linden."

He stills.

"Look at me," I tell him.

He does.

I turn my wrist so the inside faces up between us. The scar catches in the lamplight. Pale, raised, a clean little crescent I've spent ten years explaining away.

"I've always told people this was a kettle burn," I say.

He doesn't speak. He looks at the scar, then at me, then back at the scar.

"I was nineteen. Dad had been gone six years. Mom was working three jobs and forgetting to eat. Delia was thirteen and starting to disappear into herself. I was the adult in the room, and the adult in the room was tired."

His thumb moves once across the back of my hand. That's all.

"I didn't plan it. That's the part nobody believes. I came home from a closing shift and sat on the bathroom floor and thought, if I'm the one keeping all of this upright, what happens if I just stop. And then I'd already done it before I caught up with myself."

I can hear the conservatory. The hum of the heat. My own breath.

"Mom drove me to the ER because we couldn't afford the ambulance. I told the intake nurse it was a kitchen accident. I've been telling people that for ten years."

"Aubrey."

"Let me finish." I sound steadier than I am.

"A year later I started volunteering on a hotline.

I wanted to be the voice I didn't call. Then intake.

Then overnights. Every woman who walks into Lantern House at three in the morning is somebody who got further than I did before she stopped being able to carry it.

That's why I do the work. That's why I won't stop.

And that's the part of me you keep asking to put on a shelf so the rollout looks clean. "

He hasn't moved. He's still kneeling. His hand is still under mine.

"So when you ask if I'm still yours," I say, "I want you to be asking the whole person."

His eyes are wet. He turns my wrist and presses his mouth to the scar, not near it this time. On it. Long enough that I feel my pulse go against his lip.

"Thank you for telling me," he says against my skin.

"You're welcome."

He looks up at me. He doesn't let go of my hand.

"Still mine?"

"Yes," I say. "Because I say so."

"Do you want to continue tonight?" he asks. "After everything you just told me? Or do you want a break?"

"I told you because I want you to know everything," I reply. "I'm naked before you, both physically and emotionally. Now give me a night I'll never forget. Assuming I haven't just ruined the evening with my the buzzkill-of-the-century revelation. Because if I have, I'll understand. And—"

He puts my left hand on his shoulder. "Hold on to me."

I do.

His mouth lands on my inner thigh first. Then his teeth. A bite, sharper than the one at my neck, placed high enough that no one will see unless I let them. My hips jerk.

"Mine here, too," he says.

"Linden," I beg.

His mouth finds my pussy.

There's no graceful way to react to the man you love kneeling in front of you and licking you like he's dying of thirst and your clenching pussy is the only thing sustaining him. I make a noise that would get me removed from most public venues and clamp my hand over my mouth.

His tongue drags across my wet pussy, slow at first, then up to my clit with enough pressure to make my hips chase him. His hands hold my ass and hips without forcing me still.

I pull his hair. Not gently.

He groans, and the vibration goes straight into my clit.

"Oh, holy shit," I say.

Two fingers slide through wetness and press at my entrance.

"Please," I say.

He slides one finger inside me.

My head knocks lightly back against the glass. "More."

Second finger. Slow push. Stretch. Curl.

His fingers find the place inside me that makes my thighs shake. He strokes it again, watching my face from between my thighs.

"There," he says. "That's your favorite spot, isn't it?"

I make a sound that means yes in several languages and none of them.

His mouth returns to my clit while his fingers steadily work my g-spot. The first orgasm builds fast.

"Linden, I'm going to—" I shout.

He stops.

I look down at him. "Dude."

His mouth is wet. He looks pleased with himself. "Ask nicely."

My clit throbs. His fingers stay inside me, still enough to make me want to commit crimes.

"Please," I say. "Please make me cum."

His mouth returns instantly.

The orgasm hits hard. I cry out. He keeps his fingers moving, keeps his mouth on my clit, and I ride it because there's nothing else to do.

When I sag, he catches me.

"Couch," I say.

He helps me over, one arm around my back. I sit. He follows me down, kissing me again, and I taste myself on his mouth.

I don't get embarrassed.

I reach for his belt again. This time he lets me. My fingers are clumsy, so he helps, pushing his pants and briefs down just enough. His cock is hard and heavy in my hand, and the feel of him makes me tighten all over again.

I stroke him once, twice, and watch his control fray. His hand grips the back of the couch beside my shoulder.

I lean forward and take the head of his cock into my mouth. I taste salt and sweat and sweet warmth.

"Aubrey." My name comes out wrecked.

He's above me, and I'm still making him shake. His hand goes to my hair, but he doesn't push. He just holds, letting me choose.

I pull off him since he's too big for my mouth. "Condom."

He stares, then reaches for his jacket and stops. "I've got one. In case you asked. Not because I expected you to."

"Give it here," I order.

He pulls out the packet and tears it open. I take it from him.

"My turn." I hold the condom against the head of his cock with my lips, then use my hand to roll it down the rest of the way, watching him watch me.

"You're trying to kill me," he says.

"Only a little," I counter.

"Get on your back," he commands.

My pussy clenches around nothing.

I lie back on the couch.

He strips off the rest of his clothes and comes over me, then braces himself above me. "I'm going to fuck you slowly first." His mouth touches mine. "You'll take what I give you."

"Because I choose to," I say.

"Yes," he says. "Because you choose to."

He positions himself and pushes in.

Slowly.

So slowly I nearly lose my mind.

The stretch is familiar now, but I still have to breathe through it. His cock fills me inch by inch, and his eyes stay on mine. When he's fully inside, he stops, buried deep.

"Move?" I beg.

He grins hungrily. "Not yet."

"Linden," I plead.

His grin deepens. "You wanted me to tell you what to do."

"Yes, and I reserve the right to complain," I counter.

"You're going to let me take my time." His hips shift the smallest amount, and my nails drag over his back. "You're going to cum on my cock when I tell you."

My pussy tightens around him. His breath catches.

His thumb finds my clit, and he starts to move. Long, slow strokes drag his cock over every sensitive place inside me. He adjusts one of my thighs around his hip, not forcing it too high, just opening me enough that the next thrust hits my g-spot.

"There," I moan. "There. Please, right there."

"I know," he replies.

The orgasm rushes up. I grab his wrist. "Wait."

He stops immediately, still inside me. His expression is full of concern.

"Sorry. I just..." I pant. "I want it to last."

He kisses me, slower now. "We have time."

He moves again, gentler for a minute, letting me come down from the edge. His chest is against mine. His cock deep inside me. His ring cool against my skin whenever his grip changes.

Then he starts pounding.

When the pressure builds again, I don't stop it.

"Linden," I gasp.

"I've got you." His pace changes, still controlled, but rougher now. I wrap my legs around him as much as my hips allow. He groans, one hand sliding under my ass to angle me. The next thrust hits deep enough that I cry out.

"Mine," he says. "Now. Cum on my fucking cock."

His thumb finds my clit as my pussy tightens around his cock, and the second orgasm comes harder than the first, pulsing outward from my core in waves, and I scream his name.

"LINDEN LINDEN LINDEN."

He keeps fucking me through it, his face buried against my neck.

"Cum for me," I scream.

His whole body goes rigid. His thrusts turn rough, then uneven.

He pushes deep and cums with a sound that starts low in his chest and ends against my shoulder. "AUbrEY!"

For a while, neither of us moves.

Linden sags, but keeps enough weight on his forearms that he doesn't crush me.

I stroke the back of his neck. "You okay?"

He lifts his head. He looks wrecked.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you, too," I say.

He starts to pull out.

My legs tighten around him. "Stay."

His mouth curves against my cheek. "I want to. Give me a minute, I have to deal with this."

He pulls out carefully, gets rid of the condom, and comes back with the blanket from the chair. He covers us both, then draws me against his side and kisses me, lazy and deep. I end up with one thigh over his, my head on his chest. His hand rests on my hip. I place my own palm on his chest.

He touches the ring with one finger. "Wife."

I smile. "Husband."

"No contract," he says.

"No contract," I agree.

I look past him to the glass, to our reflection tangled on the couch in a room no one's watching.

I chose the ring.

I chose Linden.

His breathing slows, and his grip loosens at my hip, but his hand stays there, safe and possessive.

We fall asleep like that.