Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marie
The kiss wasn’t gentle this time. It wasn’t sweet or careful, nor did he give me time to adjust. His mouth took mine with the confidence of a man who was fifteen years older and knew what he wanted.
His hand fisted in my hair, angling my head where he wanted it, his tongue sliding past my lips to taste and explore.
My hands moved from his shirt to his hair, fingers tangling in platinum strands that were soft and thick. He tasted of safety, kissing me like he was trying to consume every thought in my head until there was nothing left but him.
His hand on my waist slid lower, gripping my hip. The possessiveness didn’t trigger that instinct I'd developed over years of men taking without asking. This was Wade, who I’d kissed in the ocean, who gave me commands that made me feel safe instead of trapped, and I trusted him.
And also, he was really good at this. So much better than he had any right to be. I almost needed to let him know he was showing off, but his lips kept moving against mine, alternating between deep, consuming kisses and lighter ones that made me chase him for more.
His teeth caught my bottom lip, tugging gently, making me lean closer and arch against him.
“Good, darling," he murmured against my mouth, his voice rough. "Stop thinking and just feel."
I responded with a soft noise, making sure he knew I heard him before drowning in the sensation of his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, and the solid warmth of him beneath me.
My mind went blissfully empty of everything except how good this felt, how right, and how perfectly his lips fit against mine. He knew what I needed better than I did.
It made me kiss him harder. I wanted more of this, more of him, more of the feeling that someone capable was in charge, and I could finally stop carrying everything alone.
We kissed until my lips were swollen and my body was humming with want. Until the guilt and self-loathing retreated into manageable background noise instead of a constant scream.
"Better?" he asked, his voice rough and satisfied.
“So much better," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "Though my lips might need an ice pack.”
My hand moved without conscious thought, sliding from his hair down to his chest. The linen shirt was soft under my palm, unbuttoned just enough for me to feel warm skin and muscle beneath.
I traced the edge where fabric met skin, his heartbeat steady and strong, and explored the definition of muscle that spoke to discipline and care.
His hands began their own exploration, moving down my sides to map the curve of my waist through the cotton. His touch was careful, but there was need in it too. An undeniable hunger that matched my own.
Then his hands slipped beneath my shirt.
I gasped at the contact—warm palms against bare skin, long fingers tracing up my ribs with aching slowness. He skimmed over my belly, up my sternum, across my collarbone.
Everywhere. Touching everywhere except where I suddenly, desperately needed him to touch.
I whined against his mouth, and he chuckled, the sound dark, amused, and infinitely patient.
"Patience, darling.” His hands were already pushing my shirt up, cool air hitting my skin, and I realized with a flush of heat that he'd exposed my breasts completely. My peaked nipples were dark against my brown skin, tight and sensitive in the open air.
“Fuck, you're beautiful," he breathed, and I believed him. He made me feel beautiful despite the bandages, bruises, and everything that was broken. "So beautiful, Marie."
His hands cupped my breasts, and I couldn't help the moan that escaped me. Large palms covered me, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The contrast was stark—his hands pale against my darker skin, elegant and strong, making me feel delicate and small.
"There you go,” he praised, his thumbs circling my nipples in slow strokes. “Such a pretty sound, darling."
It felt so good. His hands were skilled, alternating between gentle touches and firmer pressure that made my back arch. He rolled my nipples between his fingers, tugging gently, and soothed with his palms. Each touch sent heat spiraling through me, my body coming alive.
His mouth found mine again, kissing me while his hands worked magic on my breasts. I was drowning in his tongue against mine, his thumbs on my nipples, and the solid warmth of his body beneath me. My hips shifted restlessly, seeking friction, seeking something I couldn't quite name.
One of his hands left my breast, trailing down over my ribs, my belly. His fingers traced patterns on my skin that made me shiver and ache. Then his hand slid into the waistband of my pajama pants.
My hips bucked immediately, searching for his touch, desperate for it.
“Patience, darling," he mused against my lips, his hand moving lower. "I've got you. Just relax and let me make you feel good."
His fingers found my core, and I stopped breathing. He moved them slowly, giving me time to adjust to the sensation of being touched there. He slid his fingers over my slit, gentle and exploratory, and I felt myself getting wetter under his attention.
"That's my good girl," he purred with approval. “You’re so wet from having my hands on you.”
The praise made my head spin, body arching further into his touch. His fingers circled my clit in slow circles that made pleasure wash through me. It felt good. So good. Better than anything I’d felt in forever.
“You look beautiful,” he continued, his mouth moving to my neck. "Keeping your shirt up for me like such a well-behaved girl. Letting me see these soft breasts while I touch you. You're doing so well, darling. So well."
His words were dirty and sweet at the same time, praising and possessive, making me feel cherished, wanted, and safe enough to take this pleasure he was giving.
His fingers rubbed against my clit with perfect pressure. Not too much, not too little, but just enough to make me whimper and shift against him. My body was chasing sensation I'd been denied for too long.
His other hand held me close, anchoring me against his chest while he worked me higher. I felt the press of one long finger at my entrance, gentle but insistent, seeking permission as it slowly pushed inside.
My entire body went rigid, breath caught in my throat. Penetration—something about penetration made my brain freeze, making memories flash that I didn't want to remember.
Hands that weren't gentle, words that weren't praise. The feeling of being used instead of pleasured.
"Marie." His voice cut through the panic, soft and grounding. His finger stilled immediately, not withdrawing but not pushing deeper. "Marie, darling, look at me."
I opened eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed, finding his gaze steady and concerned above me. His other hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone in a gesture that calmed me.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” he urged softly. He pressed a kiss to my temple, soft and reassuring. “Does it hurt?”
"I'm okay," I managed, my voice shaking. "It's just penetration wasn't good for me. Before… in that place. But this,” I took a breath, making myself relax degree by degree. "This feels nicer. Different in a good way.”
Understanding flickered in his expression, almost like a sad acknowledgment or acceptance. "Just this one finger,” he soothed, steady and calm. "Nothing more. And if it stops feeling good, you tell me immediately, okay?”
I nodded, feeling the tension drain from my body. His finger was still inside me, but he wasn't moving it, wasn't pushing or demanding. He was just waiting patiently, letting me adjust.
"Good girl," he praised. Then his thumb found my clit again, rubbing with that same perfect pressure. "Focus on this. Focus on how good it feels when I touch this precious pussy.”
He moved his finger carefully, curling it in a way that made warmth trickle up my spine. At the same time, his thumb worked my clit in circles, building pleasure that pushed away the memories trying to surface.
His lips kept pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, my jaw as he worked, keeping my head occupied.
“There you go,” he soothed against my skin. "Just feel, Marie. Feel how good you’re feeling right now. How safe you are with me. How much I love touching you like this.”
The combination was overwhelming—his finger inside me moving in slow strokes, his thumb on my clit building tension, his voice in my ear praising me and encouraging me, making me feel treasured instead of anything else.
"You're doing so well,” he continued, his voice dripping with soft praise. “Taking my finger so deep inside. You’re so brave, my darling.”
His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket, making me feel safe enough to chase the pleasure building in my core. My hips started moving again, rocking against his hand, seeking more of the friction that felt so impossibly good.
“Feeling good now?” His finger curled inside me again, finding a spot that made me gasp. “You’re going to come on my finger, yes, darling? Let me watch you in bliss while knowing you're safe? That no one's going to hurt you, that this is just for you?”
The tension coiled tighter and wound up my spine in a way that felt almost too intense. His thumb circled my clit with perfect consistency, his finger moved inside me, and his other hand held me close enough that I could feel his heartbeat against my back.
"Come for me, my brave girl,” he commanded softly. "Let go. I’m holding you."
I couldn’t help it—I shattered in his arms with a cry, my body arching as the first pleasure I’d felt in forever washed through me. He didn't stop moving, working me through it, prolonging the sensation until I was trembling and practically crying.
“That’s a good girl," he soothed, and the praise made something break open inside me.
Tears spilled over before I could stop them. They weren’t sad tears, but much more complicated. Relief and the realization that touch could feel like this, that someone could touch me there and make me feel so cherished.