Chapter 13 Elena #3
Without warning, without stretching, warmth presses against my core and pushes.
One relentless thrust, and he shoves into me fully, a cry breaking past my lips as I struggle to accommodate him. My body clenches around the sudden, blissful intrusion, a sweat breaking out down my spine.
He squeezes my hand, barely perceptible, but it’s there.
“Christ—” His voice fractures against my ear, his hips snapping forward again, driving me against the counter until the edge juts into my skin. A hand comes around the front of my throat, tilting my head back, keeping me arched. “Look at you—ah—taking me so easily. Like you were made for me.”
My head spins. Made for him.
His hand tightens over mine, his grip almost bruising as he sets a brutal pace, only hints of gentleness left in the unrestrained need he’s letting out.
Each thrust steals my breath, each drag of him inside me winding me tighter, until I’m gasping, pleading, every nerve alight as he forces me to watch our reflection in the window.
His thumb sweeps over the back of my hand, a whisper of tenderness in the storm of him.
But then he’s pulling me back harder, faster, teeth sinking into my shoulder before he murmurs filthy bits of praise against my skin. “Feel like fucking heaven, darling,” he growls, voice rough with restraint, like every roll of his hips is taking supreme effort to control.
He pulls almost all the way out just to sink back in with a slow, angled thrust that drags a whimper from deep in my chest. My knees tremble already, pressure building, my grip on the counter slipping — but his hand tightens over mine, locking me in place.
“None of that,” he murmurs, nipping the shell of my ear. “You don’t get to fall apart just yet.”
His free hand slides from my throat, down my chest, around to my side.
Every drag of his digits across my skin feels like sin, intentional and greedy, and then he’s pulling me back from the counter just enough to slip that same hand around my front between my thighs.
Fingers skim through damp heat, finding my clit so easily I nearly sob.
The sob that tears out of me is unholy as he presses down in slow, torturous circles, timing each one with his thrusts. My back bows, my hips rocking instinctively back into him, against him, seeking more, desperate for it—
“Harry,” I whimper, and I can feel him shudder against me.
His answering groan is deep and guttural, like I’ve wrecked him just by saying his name.
He shifts, just slightly, angling himself anew, and Christ, it sends a jolt of unfiltered pleasure through me.
I choke on a gasp as he does it again, reading my body language, figuring me out — then does it again, and again, and again.
Reckless. Uneven. Greedy. My nails scrape against the counter as I try to keep myself in place, my middle one chipping, but I don’t care.
“You’re close,” he rasps, his voice barely recognizable. His fingers press harder, just enough to get a reaction, then keep pace with his hips. “I can feel you trembling around me.”
I am trembling. My thighs are shaking, every muscle drawing tight as pleasure coils tighter, winding me up until I’m gasping, barely able to breathe past the mounting pressure. The city blurs beyond the glass, my vision fracturing, my walls clenching around him—
“Go on.” His teeth graze my shoulder again, taunting me, and the world begins to fracture. “Come.”
Everything shatters in a blur of sound and sensation, my release tearing a wail from me so loud it physically hurts my throat.
My head drops forward onto the counter as the rest of my body locks up, pleasure surging through me in hot, pulsing waves, so intense I lose myself for a moment.
His name is a broken moan on my lips, over and over, spilling out like confessions as my free hand reaches behind me for something solid to hold onto, digging into the jut of his hip.
But he doesn’t stop.
“Attagirl,” he says against my shoulder, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
His fingers leave my clit just as the shock begins to calm, sliding back up to grip my hip, digging into the soft flesh there as he fucks me through the aftershocks — harder, unrestrained, sloppy, chasing his own release.
“Fuck—mine, mine—”
His voice is ragged and broken, his breath hot against my skin as he loses the last of his control. His hips stutter once, then twice, before he buries himself deep with a low, husky groan, losing himself inside of me so thoroughly I can feel it leak down the inside of my thigh.
For a long moment, we don’t move. His chest heaves against my back, his body warm where it presses flush against me, his fingers still tangled tightly in mine. His heartbeat thuds heavily against my skin, rapid but even.
His lips brush my shoulder, right over where his teeth had been before. Slowly, like he’s avoiding setting off a bomb, his grip loosens on me, and his hand locked in mine lifts, carrying my fingertips to his mouth.
He presses a kiss there, soft and lingering, and I’m not sure if it’s the come down or the act that makes my breathing go weird because of it.
His forehead drops to the nape of my neck.
“God,” he murmurs, his voice well and truly wrecked.
And that single word, whispered against my skin, defeated and reverent and confused, undoes me more than anything else tonight.
I don’t know what any of it means — if this is just what we are now, a married couple who fucks when things get too heated or the pressure bursts. But if it is, I’m not upset about it.
I’d take it over hating myself with George.
I try not to admit to myself that I’d take it over many things, actually.