10. Chapter Ten #3
My balls draw tight, that deep, brutal warning that I am about to lose the fight and embarrass myself in this condom if I don’t get her there first. That’s not fucking happening.
I flick her clit harder with my thumb and drive into her again.
“I want to feel that pussy come around my cock.”
Her whole body jerks. Her thighs clamp around my hips and her mouth falls open on a sound that is half moan and half swear, as she loses control under me.
Her cunt tightens hard around my cock, pulsing so tight I nearly see God, which is fucking inconvenient because I’m not in the mood to thank anyone for this except myself.
“Fuck,” I groan, my hips snapping once, twice, barely controlled.
She comes hard, shaking on the counter, her back arching, head tipping against the board as every filthy little sound I have ever wondered about rips out of her.
All for my cock. For my thumb. For the asshole who was stupid enough to think this could ever feel normal.
My control doesn’t survive the sound of her coming. Not even close.
Her cunt tightens around my cock, hot and mean enough to make every muscle in my body lock up. I growl, one hand gripping her thigh, the other braced on the counter, and I keep fucking her through it because stopping now would require manners I don’t have.
“Fuck, Wills.”
That is all I get out before it hits me.
The kind of pleasure that rips straight through my spine, leaving nothing useful behind. My hips snap into her again, rough and greedy, chasing every last second of it as my body loses its damn mind.
I drive into her once more and groan, loud, my jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. My hips slam into her once, twice, and then I come with a rough sound torn out of my throat, spilling hot into the condom while I keep driving into her like stopping is not a skill I was ever taught.
My cock pulses inside her, every thick spurt dragged out by the way her pussy keeps gripping me through it, greedy as hell, as if she is trying to take every last bit of sense I have left.
“Jesus, fucking, Christ.”
This is the kind of orgasm that feels less like getting off and more like being fucking mugged by your own body.
I stay buried inside her, breathing hard, cock still twitching in the condom, hands locked on her like I own the right to keep her there. But I am not that guy.
I pull back just enough to look at her. And there she is, dress shoved up, thighs spread around me, hair a mess, lips swollen, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide as if I just fucked every smart thought out of her head.
That does something to my ego. A lot, actually. Enough that the arrogant part of me sits up, lights a cigarette, and starts taking credit for the weather.
The room shifts. The music thuds through the wall. A bottle settles somewhere inside one of the crates. Willow’s breathing slows, and mine tries to follow.
Reality walks back in with its shoes on and steps right on my throat.
Fuck.
I pull out of her and turn away to deal with the condom. I toss it in the trash and fix my jeans, my hands suddenly too aware of themselves.
Brilliant. Fucking outstanding work, Phoenix.
I fucked Willow. Not some chick from the green room.
The room goes awkward fast, the kind of awkward even my ego cannot swagger through cleanly, and I hate it.
I hate the silence. The sound of my zipper.
I hate that my body still wants to turn around and touch her again while my brain is standing there with a lit match, pointing at the wreckage, asking what the hell did I expect would happen.
She slides off the counter carefully, gathering herself, one small movement at a time. Her dress falls back over her thighs and she smooths it with trembling fingers while I look away, because if I watch her too long, I might say something stupid.
I drag a hand through my hair and force a smirk onto my face. It feels wrong. Crooked. Meaner than I intend it to be, which is impressive, considering mean usually fits me better than most of my clothes.
“Well,” I say, my voice still rough from whatever the hell is clawing at my chest. “We should get back out there.”
She stares at me for a beat too long and I see the moment it lands.
What this was. What I made it. What kind of man fucks her, then reaches for his jeans before reaching for her.
Something shifts in her face, and fuck, I hate that I notice. The heat drains first. Then the softness and whatever stupid, fragile thing had been in her eyes when I was still inside her, looking at me as if maybe this had meant something I wasn’t brave enough to name.
I watch her put it away. Piece by piece. Mouth closing. Shoulders straightening. Fingers smoothing her dress with too much care, as if fixing the fabric could fix the fact that I just made her feel easy.
She nods once, but she doesn’t show the hurt. I know she would rather swallow glass than give me that look.
“Right,” she says.
One word. It’s worse than the slap she gave me at our last concert.
I unlock the door and the music crashes back in. It’s loud, filthy, and alive, swallowing the room behind us as if nothing had happened in there.
I step into the hallway first, without looking back or taking her hand.