Chapter Fifteen
The Darkness Where I Stop Pretending
The dome is dark.
Just candlelight and the leftover scent of intention oil clinging to the air and my skin.
I haven’t moved in over an hour.
Can’t.
My body is heavy with heat. With knowing.
Because something changed today. Not just in them.
In me.
They touched me with meaning. Looked at me like I was already theirs. And I can feel it, this slow, terrible beautiful undoing, blooming from my thighs to my throat.
I’m still in the robe, still bare underneath, and still marked by five declarations I didn’t ask for but took anyway.
And that’s when I hear it.
A footstep. Soft. Purposeful.
The dome flap rustles.
And then he’s there.
Jonah.
Not smirking. Not gentle. Just watching me like I’ve been lying for days and he’s finally ready to let me confess.
He says nothing at first. Just closes the flap behind him, steps forward, and lets the silence stretch so far it starts to thrum in my chest.
Then, low and measured, he says, “You’ve been running.”
I try to laugh, but it gets caught somewhere in my throat. “From what?” I ask, which is a stupid question, because I already know.
He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward, slow, certain, crossing the floor like the space between us was never meant to exist in the first place. He stops in front of me, looks down, and reaches for the tie of my robe. Not yanking. Just holding it, waiting.
My breath catches. “Jonah.”
“Stop pretending this doesn’t matter.” His voice is dangerous now. Soft. Sharp. Like a silk thread about to snap. “Stop pretending you don’t want to be unraveled.”
And gods, I do. So badly it makes my teeth ache.
But I don’t move. I can’t. Because if I do, I’ll fall at his feet and say please ruin me in a way that feels like healing.
He lets go of the belt and unloops it slow.
Then turns me gently so my back is to him.
The robe slips off my shoulders like it’s been waiting to fall. Waiting to expose me in a way that feels ritualistic and terrifyingly right.
His hands slide up my arms. Then the fabric wraps over my eyes. Tied. Firm. Blinding.
I suck in a breath.
And then his mouth is near my ear. Low. Dark. Steady. “You’re not in control tonight.”
I feel everything.
The heat of his body behind mine, steady and burning like he’s always been there, waiting for this moment.
The way the air shifts with each of his movements, intentional, quiet, like he’s hunting stillness and I’m the kill.
The absence of sight doesn’t just sharpen everything else, it strips me down. Every breath I take feels like a confession, like I’m inhaling surrender and exhaling whatever pitiful scrap of control I have left.
“Lie back,” he says.
I do.
Even though I can’t see him, I want to, need to, because the not-seeing is worse. It makes everything sharper, more unbearable, like trying to memorize a fever dream in the dark.
I want to feel him, not just his hands, not just the way he touches me like a secret ritual, but all of it. All of him. The weight, the intention, the way he looks at me like I’m already a yes he hasn’t finished asking for.
I want this.
His fingers trail down the center of my chest, slow as prophecy, then curve across my ribs and hips like he’s tracing the perimeter of something he plans to invade.
And lower.
And lower.
And gods, he touches me like he’s studied for this. Like he’s been building a map of my body in his mind and now he’s following the route with absolute certainty, like the ache between my legs was something he’s known how to read since birth.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to.
Because every second of not touching is its own kind of torture. Every second he waits is proof of how much he knows I’ll beg.
And I will. I already am.
“Say it,” he whispers, fingers just hovering where I need him most.
“Please,” I gasp.
“Louder.”
“Please, Jonah.”
His mouth brushes my ear again. “That’s better.”
And then he gives.
His fingers slide between my thighs and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fumble.
Just presses deep, slow, perfect, like he already knows the shape of me. Like he’s been dreaming of this moment and is finally, finally, allowed to touch what he’s been starving for.
I gasp sharply, helplessly.
He shushes me. Kisses the shell of my ear. “You don’t need to think,” he murmurs. His voice is so steady. “You don’t need to lead. Just feel.”
Which is bullshit, because I am feeling everything, his breath, his fingers, my own heartbeat crashing like a ritual drum under my ribs, and it’s too much. Not enough. Perfect.
His other hand cups my jaw, tilts me up, and the fingers between my thighs start to move with rhythm, slow at first, steady and circling, like he’s praying in a language made of pressure.
I arch, blind and wrecked, grabbing the sheets like they’ll hold me together.
“I like you like this,” he says, and it’s not cocky, it’s intimate. “Unmasked. Honest. Wet.”
I moan. I don’t mean to. It just rips out of me like a confession.
“I like that,” he says, voice low and rough. “That sound. That’s real. Don’t hide from me, Bliss.”
And it’s unfair, so unfair, how he makes it sound like worship and interrogation at the same time.
He slides two fingers inside me, deliberate and deep, curling in a way that makes my whole body clamp around him like he’s unlocking something sacred.
He groans low under his breath. “Tight,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Then his thumb moves again. His mouth grazes my throat. His fingers, those decisive hands, fuck me with an ache that makes my eyes roll behind the blindfold.
He doesn’t speed up. He doesn’t slow down. He holds me there on the edge, balancing on that horrible, perfect brink like it’s part of the lesson.
I whimper. Buck. Try to grind.
He holds me down. “No. You don’t get to move until I say so.”
I cry out. My orgasm is right there, clawing, pleading. “Please, Jonah, please.”
He pulls back. Just slightly.
I whine. A desperate sound. Ugly. Raw.
He presses a kiss to my cheekbone. Then, so softly it almost breaks me, says, “Beg better.”
I groan. My hands are fists. My whole body is pulsing with need. “Please, Jonah. Please let me come. I need it, I need you.”
That’s the moment he loses it.
He drops between my legs like he was always meant to live there, and his mouth replaces his hand, and oh god, he licks me like it’s a rite of passage. Like he’s worshiping. Like he’s teaching me a lesson I’ll never forget.
Tongue sliding up and over my clit, pressure perfect, steady, tongue-fucking me between groans like my pussy holds answers he’s been searching for.
I’m writhing. Blind. Sweating.
So close.
And he says, right into me, “Come for me, Bliss. Let go. Now.”
I shatter. Loud. Wet. Messy. I cry out like a woman possessed, body wracked with pleasure, mouth open, thighs shaking so hard I think I black out for a second.
And he doesn’t stop. Keeps licking me through it, deep and slow and soft, like he’s drinking every drop of my surrender.
He takes the blindfold off gently.
His face is wet. His mouth is fucking smug. But his eyes? His eyes are soft. “That’s better,” he murmurs. “Now you’re real.”
I blink up at him, boneless. Feral. Emotionally naked.
And all I can whisper is, “Holy shit.”
He smirks, just a little, and brushes his fingers across my thigh again, smudging his mark. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”
He’s right.
And I’d let him do it again.
I’m still catching my breath, body limp, sheets damp, thighs shaking, when I feel him crawl back up my body.
His hands are steady. His eyes, when I manage to find them, are dark with purpose.
“Jonah,” I start, voice broken, but he shuts it down with a kiss. Not soft. Hungry. Tongue, teeth, pressure like he’s been waiting all goddamn day to stop being careful.
He pulls the robe completely off, tosses it somewhere, I hear it hit a candle, I don’t care, and presses his chest to mine, skin to skin, heat to heat.
Then he pulls back just enough to say, “I need to fuck you now.”
And it’s not a question.
He reaches down, unbuckles his belt with one hand, undoes his pants like he’s done it a hundred times in his head, and frees himself.
He’s thick. Hard. Already slick with need.
And I realize, he’s been holding back for me.
“I want to feel all of you,” I whisper. “Now.”
He growls. Low. Animal. Controlled fury turned to fire. “Hands. Above your head.”
I obey.
He lines up, slides the head of his cock through my slick folds, up and down, slow and punishing. “You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters. “You were made for this. For me.”
Then he thrusts. All the way in. One hard, deep, devastating stroke that knocks the air out of me.
I cry out. He curses.
“Tight,” he groans. “Fuck, Bliss, so fucking tight.”
He pulls out. Slams back in. Starts moving. Hard. Deep. Intentional.
Every thrust hits like a statement.
You’re mine.
You wanted this.
You begged.
You’ll beg again.
And I do.
I beg. I whimper. I moan his name like a mantra as he fucks me into the mattress like he’s claiming territory inside my body.
He grabs my wrists, holds them above my head with one hand, other hand sliding under my thigh, lifting it higher to hit deeper.
And it works. Oh god, it works.
He fucks me like he’s punishing me for ever pretending I didn’t want him. “Feel me?” he growls. “You’re gonna come on my cock now. Right now.”
I shatter, again, tighter, harder. So much more than the first.
My body clenches around him, back arching, mouth open, screaming his name into the candlelit dome as I come undone.
He groans. A deep, guttural sound like he’s being pulled under with me.
“Where?” he grits. “Tell me.”
“Inside,” I gasp. “Fuck, please, inside.”
He snarls, thrusts twice more, then stills, and comes. Hard. Deep. Buried in me like he’s been waiting to give this to me and no one else.
I feel every pulse. Every twitch. Every drop.
He stays inside me, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. Then finally, finally, he kisses me again. This one is different. Still deep. Still claiming. But softer now. Like he’s wrecked too. Like I wasn’t the only one who surrendered tonight.
He’s still inside me. His breath is slowing, chest pressed to mine, sweat cooling between us. One of his hands strokes down my ribs, then up again to cup my face. Thumb dragging over my cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize it.
I can’t move. Don’t want to. My body’s buzzing. Spent. Full of him in every way that matters.
He kisses me again. Longer. Not for dominance. Not for hunger. For something else. When he pulls back, his gaze searches mine. Slowly. Like he’s debating something.
Then he says, “I didn’t expect to need you.”
My breath stutters.
It’s not a line. It’s a truth. A raw one.
His eyes flicker, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. But he doesn’t take it back. He brushes his knuckles over my temple. “Didn’t come here for this,” he murmurs. “Didn’t expect this to matter.”
The air tightens.
My heart pounds.
Because that? That didn’t sound like a man who just fell for me at a retreat. That sounded like a man with a plan.
I try to speak.
He presses another kiss to my jaw. Then my collarbone. Stays there. Silent. Too silent. “You make it hard to remember what I came here for,” he says, barely above a whisper.
And that’s the last thing he gives me.
Because then he pulls out, slow and careful and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m left on the bed, thighs sticky, heart spinning, mind screaming, What the hell does that mean?