Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
The Pulse
Dominic
She thought we were finished for the night.
I knew we had only just begun.
I didn’t care who saw.
Not Scott.
Not the neighbors.
I came up through the basement exit, cutting across her backyard under the dark. Mrs. Patterson’s house next door glowed like a watchtower—her living room window angled straight toward Teyonah’s kitchen.
The old woman was always awake. Always watching.
I saw the curtain move as I passed.
She’d seen me.
Probably still squinting now behind that curtain, holding her breath.
Good.
Let her watch.
Let her whisper.
Let her see me fuck Teyonah so hard that even she comes.
Teyonah cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to the moment.
"I'm getting Scott water." Her voice held steady, but I heard the breathlessness underneath—the way oxygen shortened in her lungs, the subtle hitch that meant her autonomic nervous system was firing on all cylinders.
Arousal.
Fear.
Want.
Her body couldn't lie to me even if her mouth tried.
My jaw clenched at his name. "How is he?"
"Alive. Barely." She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing my attention to how thin the dress’s fabric was. "Scott snorted cocaine before you drugged him."
Aww. I knew something else must have been in his system.
The information hit me in layers.
First: surprise. I hadn't accounted for pre-existing substances.
Second: calculation. Benzodiazepines plus cocaine plus alcohol was a pharmacological nightmare. The sedative would depress his CNS while cocaine stimulated it and alcohol amplified the depressant effects. His heart was probably arrhythmic, and his blood pressure erratic.
Third: something darker and more primitive hit me.
He should be dead. Why didn’t he just fucking die?
I did my best to not smile. "That could've killed him."
"Which is why you won’t be sneaking him anything again."
"That depends on when he leaves this house."
We stared at each other across her kitchen. This domestic space where she made breakfast for her children, where normalcy pretended to exist, where she was now standing in a lust-wrinkled dress with my fingerprints still bruised into her hips.
Mine.
Every cell of her screamed it.
She swallowed. "You should go back downstairs, and. . .I’ll probably come back down. . ."
But her feet didn't move toward the sink.
Her body didn't turn away.
I could see the war happening behind her eyes. The good mother fighting the woman who'd been neglected for years. The part of her that knew this was reckless wrestling with the part that didn't care anymore.
She was terrified—not of me, but of how much she wanted this. How much she wanted to stop being responsible, stop being careful, stop protecting everyone except herself.
And I could see her carotid artery fluttering in her throat—rapid, elevated.
At least ninety beats per minute. Probably higher.
"But we’re not done and won’t be for a while." I pushed off the counter, stalked over, and closed the distance between us.
She parted her lips.
I stopped three feet in front of her and let my gaze travel over her face—pupils dilated despite the bright kitchen light, lips parted for increased oxygen intake, that beautiful flush spreading down her throat.
"We weren't finished, Mommy." I watched her swallow and counted the increased respirations—sixteen per minute climbing to twenty.
Heat pooled in her cheeks, that gorgeous tell that blood was rushing to her skin, preparing her body for what it knew was coming.
She whispered, "Scott's upstairs."
"I know exactly where Scott is." I took another step. Close enough now to see her pulse hammering visibly beneath the delicate skin of her neck. "The question is. . . where do you want my cock to be?"
I already knew the answer.
Her body had been screaming it since she'd walked into this kitchen—the way she angled toward me despite her words, the way her breathing had gone shallow and rapid, the way her hands trembled slightly before she crossed her arms.
Classic sympathetic nervous system activation.
Fight or flight.
Except her body had chosen a third option.
Fuck.
I grinned.
The new piercing still ached, a steady pulse against the underside of my tongue.
Even that sting fascinated me.
Pain and purpose coiled together.
I could feel the metal bead resting cool against the muscle.
During rounds this afternoon, I’d caught myself testing it against the roof of my mouth, analyzing texture and temperature the way I might a medical tool.
Pressure.
Density.
Conductivity.
The piercer had rattled off the after-care list, warning me. For at least two weeks, there was to be no contact, no heat, no saliva exchanges. Break the rules, and I’d risk infection, swelling, even bacteria slipping into my bloodstream.
And still, none of it mattered.
Because I’d made this piercing for her.
If it tore, if it bled, if the taste of metal outlasted the taste of air, so be it. I’d trade the risk of a fever for the certainty of her pleasure.
My body was already a study in devotion; one more open wound wouldn’t make me hesitate.
Tonight. . .her pussy would feel this piercing. The metal barb could hold chill longer than flesh, deliver sharper pressure, and spread delicious vibrations differently through the softness of her clit.
I wanted to give her that right now.
Heightened sensory precision.
I flexed my tongue within my mouth, preparing myself to move it through the pain.
Her pleasure was my only intent now.
She watched me and then spoke, "I need to get him water, and then we can talk."
But again, she didn't move at all except for that rapid rise and fall of her chest, and those perfect breasts straining against thin fabric.
My cock had been half-hard since the moment I'd heard her footsteps on the stairs. Now it throbbed painfully against my zipper, demanding I finish what Scott's pathetic existence had interrupted.
I held her gaze, watching her pupils blow wider.
Textbook arousal response.
Her hypothalamus was flooding her system with hormones right now—oxytocin, dopamine, norepinephrine. Her body preparing itself to be claimed by me, to be filled, to be mine in the way it had been mine thirty minutes ago before her ex-husband's weak knocking ruined everything.
The kitchen settled around us.
Silent except for our breathing—hers quick and shallow, mine controlled but barely.
Above us, Scott probably slept fitfully in her bed, his system struggling to metabolize the chemical warfare raging through his bloodstream.
Cocaine? That son of a bitch.
He'd forced his way back into this house—the one he'd stuck her with financially while he lived rent-free with his mistress. When I showed up, she was drowning in mortgage payments and taking care of the kids while he was probably spending money on cocaine.
Meanwhile, I could write a check for this entire property tomorrow and never notice the withdrawal.
Money didn't make me better than him.
But the way I would use it for her?
That made all the difference.
Fuck him.
Now that I knew the cocaine was in his system too. . .I knew that Scott would most definitely wake up eventually.
Confused.
Suspicious.
Angry.
But right now, in this moment, he was irrelevant.
There was only her.
Only this.
Only the way her body called to mine like a drug I'd never be able to quit.
My chest felt tight.
Not from arousal—though that was there, demanding and insistent. But from something else. Something that made my hands unsteady and my breath catch.
Fear.
I was terrified of how much I needed this.
Needed her.
How completely she'd rewired my brain in the span of hours.
“Dominic. . .we’ll finish this discussion downstairs. . .”
"Your heart rate is elevated," I took another step and stopped right in front of her. Close enough to smell her now—sweat, arousal and her perfume mixing with the musk of what we'd done in my bed. "At least ninety. Probably closer to a hundred."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Your breathing's rapid. Shallow." I let my gaze drop to her breasts, watching them rise and fall. "You're showing every physiological sign of arousal, Teyonah. Your body knows exactly what it wants."
"Dominic—"
"And I can see your pulse." I lifted my hand slowly, giving her time to step back.
She didn't.
My fingers found her throat, pressing gently against her carotid artery. Feeling that frantic rhythm beating against my fingertips like a caged bird.
"There it is." My voice dropped lower. "Fast. Irregular. Your cardiovascular system responding to proximity, to touch, to the memory of how my cock felt inside you."
Her breath hitched.
"Do you know what happens to your body during arousal?" I traced my fingers down the column of her throat, feeling her swallow against my palm. "Blood flow increases to your pussy. Your vaginal walls swell with more blood, preparing for penetration. Lubrication begins—"
"Stop." But it came out breathy, unconvincing.
"Your clitoris engorges. Becomes hypersensitive. Every nerve ending firing, begging to be touched." My hand slid lower, fingers spreading across her collarbone. "Your nipples harden—I can see them through your dress right now. Your core temperature rising. Your pupils dilating."
I leaned closer, my mouth near her ear. "And right now, Teyonah, your pussy is getting wet. Soaking wet. Not because you want it to. But because your body remembers me. Remembers how my cock stretched you. How I filled you. How I was about to make you cum."
She trembled.
"Your hypothalamus doesn't care that Scott's upstairs. It doesn't care about propriety or timing or anything except the fact that I gave you pleasure and you want more."
"You shouldn’t be here. This is dangerous."
"No." I pulled back to look at her face. "This is biology. This is chemistry. This is your body recognizing mine as its perfect match."
Her hands came up to my chest—whether to push me away or pull me closer, I wasn't sure she knew either.
"Go downstairs, Dominic.”
“Why?”
“I can't think when you're this close."
"Good." My hand slid to her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric. "Thinking is overrated. Your prefrontal cortex is shutting down right now anyway. Making room for your limbic system to take over. The primitive part of your brain that knows exactly what it needs—"
"Dominic—"
"Say you want this." My fingers tightened on her waist. "Say you want me to fuck you on this kitchen table while your ex-husband sleeps upstairs, completely oblivious to the fact that you're mine now and your wet pussy is getting deliciously pounded."
Her pulse jumped under my fingers.
"Say it, Teyonah."
She stared up at me, those beautiful brown eyes wide, dark, and full of everything she was trying not to feel.
"I. . ." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "I want this. I want you. Right now. Right here."
Mmm. Much better.
But was she truly ready for what I desired?