Chapter 19 #2
Tears came. Real ones—hot, streaming down my face, soaking into the cushion beneath me.
Not from pain. From the overwhelming relief of being used exactly like this.
Stripped down to nothing but wet holes and dripping need, and his.
Completely, devastatingly his. Every wall I’d built—every hard edge, every survival instinct that kept me rigid and sharp and alone—he fucked through all of it until there existed nothing left but me, bare and shaking underneath him.
He pulled out suddenly and deliberately, leaving my stretched pussy empty, clenching around nothing. A pathetic whine escaped my throat, and my hips chased him, searching, desperate for the fullness he’d stolen.
“On your knees, baby girl.” Rough. Commanding. Not a request.
I scrambled to obey. Knees sinking into the worn cushions, breath ragged, body trembling with need.
He fisted my hair tight and yanked my head back until my throat arched—exposed, vulnerable, his.
He shoved his cock past my parted lips and straight down my throat.
Still slick. Still shiny with my creamy juices.
“Suck it clean, Sloane. Taste how fucking sweet your cunt is.”
I moaned around his thick length, hollowing my cheeks, tongue swirling greedily over every veined inch.
Salty. Musky. The mix of my cum and his precum coated my tongue, and I swallowed around him, hungry for it.
I gagged hard when he hit the back of my throat—fresh tears spilling fast down my cheeks—but I didn’t pull away.
I took him deeper. Relaxed my throat and let him use my mouth with short, brutal thrusts, because I needed this.
Needed to be reduced to nothing, needed to disappear into the act of serving him.
Drool ran down my chin and dripped onto my tits.
“Good girl.” A groan that sounded as if it cost him something. “Such a perfect little cock slut. Choking on the taste of your own wrecked pussy.”
He pulled free with a wet pop, thick strings of spit stretching between my swollen lips and his glistening cock.
Before I could draw a full breath, he shoved me face-down, yanked my hips high, and drove his cock back into my dripping cunt from behind—one savage thrust, a broken cry escaping my lips.
Deeper at this angle, he bottomed out with every brutal stroke, heavy balls slapping against my swollen clit.
One hand fisted my hair again—using it like reins, hauling me back onto his pounding cock—and the other reached around to find my throbbing clit.
He pinched hard. Rolled it. Tugged the sensitive bud between rough fingers while he destroyed me from behind.
“Come, Sloane.” Dark. Commanding. Leaving no room for anything except obedience.
I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me—violent, blinding, total.
My body seized. I screamed into the cushion, voice raw and ruined, and somewhere inside that obliteration, I found exactly what I’d been chasing: the silence, the surrender, the place where I stopped existing and all that remained belonged to him.
He fucked me through every pulse—relentless, brutal—until his rhythm broke.
He buried himself to the hilt, hips jerking, and came with a guttural groan that I absorbed through my whole body.
Hot, thick pulses flooded me again, spilling out around his cock, and he kept grinding into me—slow now, deep, like he intended to leave part of himself permanently inside me.
When he finally stilled, we trembled together. His forehead dropped against my back. His breath came ragged and hot on my skin. My fingers curled into the cushion beneath me, holding on to something solid because everything else had come undone.
He didn’t pull out right away, stayed buried, his cock still twitching with the last aftershocks, chest heaving against my back. His lips found the shell of my ear—not biting this time, just resting there, breathing me in.
“My perfect girl.” His voice came out wrecked, stripped down to something tender and raw that he’d never let me hear before.
One hand stroked down my spine, slow and gentle—the same hand that had fisted my hair, slapped my ass, pinched my clit until I screamed.
Gentle now, careful, like I’d become someone worth protecting.
I turned my head just enough to catch his mouth. The kiss landed slowly, lazily, no teeth this time, no blood, just the taste of salt and sex and us—whatever this unnamed, impossible thing between us had become in a world that didn’t allow softness.
“Again tomorrow?” I whispered against his lips, my voice barely held together.
He laughed, low, dark, a sound that settled warm and dangerous at the base of my spine.
“Baby girl… you’re gonna be limping for days.”
I smiled into his mouth—small, satisfied, already aching for the next time he’d take me apart.
His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer, and I let him, let my body go slack against his, let my guard stay down for once, here in this quiet room, his heartbeat steady against my back and his cum still leaking warm between my thighs.
The apocalypse could wait.
We had each other to destroy first.
* * *
I woke with a start.
For a second, I didn’t know where I existed. The room hung dim around me, gray morning light seeping through gaps in the hurricane shutters, falling across the office walls in thin, pale strips.
I registered the warmth: no blanket warmth, body warmth, the kind that wraps around you and holds you.
Callan’s arm draped across my waist.
My back pressed flush against his chest, his breathing slow and steady against my hair. His arm rested across my stomach—not gripping, not pulling. Simply there. Heavy and warm and so natural it made my throat tight.
I should have hated it.
I didn’t.
I opened my eyes slowly and turned to see him.
He looked back at me. Already awake.
Watching me.
His hair fell in dark, messy strands across his forehead. One arm still tucked beneath the blanket while the other stayed where it rested, settled against me. His expression held no smugness. No teasing. None of the things I’d braced for.
Careful.
Quiet.
Like he’d been lying there a while, waiting for me to surface, trying to figure out what to say.
“Sloane,” he said softly.
My pulse stumbled.
“Did I hurt you?”
Heat rushed into my face so fast it burned.
Of all the things he could have asked.
I liked rough sex. I wasn’t a stranger to it. But it didn’t belong in morning conversation—definitely not at seven a.m., definitely not while I lay curled against the person responsible, definitely not while his hand rested warm and steady on my stomach and his voice sounded like that.
I tried to duck my head, suddenly fascinated by the edge of the blanket.
“Hey,” he said gently.
His fingers found my chin. Tilted it back up. Not forceful.
“Don’t hide from me.”
I hesitated. Then I met his eyes.
“I’m okay,” I said.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t nod and move on. Just held my gaze, searching—reading me the way he always seemed to, looking past the words to whatever sat underneath them.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss caught me completely off guard.
Soft, so soft I didn’t know what to do with it at first. No urgency, no heat, no edge. A slow, careful press of his mouth against mine, unhurried and deliberate, like he offered me all the time in the world to pull away.
I didn’t.
Something in my chest pulled tight.
I’ve had plenty of rough mornings. Plenty of waking up next to someone and immediately calculating the fastest exit. Plenty of hands that grabbed and mouths that took and silences that meant nothing.
But never this.
Never someone who stayed. Never someone who held me in early light as if it belonged to the natural order of things. Like no other place in the world made sense.
Which, honestly, landed kind of pathetically for thirty.
He kissed me again. Deeper this time, still gentle but warmer, his hand moved across my stomach, tracing absent circles through the thin fabric of my shirt. His fingers drifted higher, grazing the underside of my breast with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact.
A shiver rolled through me, nothing like the night before—not that desperate, electric, world-collapsing intensity. This was slower, something that settled into my bones instead of burning through them, and worse, because it carried safety in it.
I pulled back slightly, studied his face, the sleep-soft edges, the way he looked at me—steady, present, there—like I existed as the only thing in the room worth attention.
“You’re being weird again,” I murmured.
Callan let out a quiet laugh. His forehead dropped against mine, noses almost touching.
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”
His breathing changed against my throat—deeper, slower, like he drew me in with every inhale. His lips parted over my pulse point, not kissing yet, just hovering. The heat from his open mouth. The tremor of restraint in his exhale.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, the words vibrating through my skin.
It wasn’t too much.
His hand—the one still laced with mine—squeezed once before he let go and trailed his fingers down the inside of my arm, lower until his palm settled flat over my heart. He pressed there, gentle but deliberate, reading what pulsed underneath.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“I know.”
His thumb stroked across my nipple, barely there. A breath of contact that caught sharp and sweet in my chest. Then again, slower, the pad circling in lazy passes that drew the peak tighter until every touch sent warmth pooling low in my belly.