Chapter 22 #2
"I can't—" My words dissolve into incoherent sounds as he drives into me harder. My body's being pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
The intensity of his movements makes my vision blur at the edges. There's a moment where it's almost too much—where the pleasure borders on something else—and Dane must sense it because he slows, his breath hot against my ear.
"Should I stop?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Don't you dare," I manage to gasp out, the words more desperate than I intended. Apparently, dignity left the chat about five minutes ago.
He takes me at my word, resuming his punishing pace, each thrust driving me further into the mattress. The headboard slams against the wall—sorry, Mrs. Kapoor next door—but I'm beyond caring about noise complaints or tomorrow's awkward hallway encounters.
My entire world has narrowed to this—to the delicious drag of him inside me, to the grip of his hands on my hips that will definitely leave marks, to the grunts and curses falling from his lips.
"God, Lila," he growls, one hand leaving my hip to tangle in my hair again.
He pulls just hard enough to arch my back further, changing the angle again, and I cry out as he hits a spot that sends electric currents racing through my body.
The pain and pleasure swirl together in a way that makes no logical sense—the sting of my scalp, the burning stretch between my legs, the pressure of his fingers digging into my hip—it should hurt. It does hurt. But somehow my brain is translating every sensation into pure, unfiltered pleasure.
One of my undergrad roommate once described great sex as "hurts so good" while I rolled my eyes at the cliché. I owe her an apology text tomorrow.
"Come for me," he commands, voice rough like he's running out of control.
I want to—God, I want to—but it's like I'm stuck at the edge, my body tensed and waiting for something just out of reach.
"I don't know if I can," I admit, frustration bleeding into my voice.
Most guys would double down on what they're already doing, or worse, get all weird and stressed about it. Dane just says, "Yes, you can," with such absolute certainty that I almost believe him.
He releases my hair, both hands returning to my hips. For a second I think he's just going to pound harder—the typical male solution to every bedroom problem.
Instead, I feel one hand slide up my spine in a surprisingly tender gesture before both hands move to my ass. His thumbs part my cheeks and I tense slightly, not sure what to expect.
The gentle pressure of his thumb against my back entrance sends a shock through me—not revulsion but something surprisingly like curiosity mixed with arousal.
It's not something I've ever done, but the careful way he circles the sensitive skin there while still pushing deep inside my pussy creates a sensation that's completely new.
"Oh my god," I gasp, my forehead dropping to the mattress again.
He doesn't push inside, just maintains that light pressure, that teasing circle, while his thrusts become more measured, more deliberate.
"Let go," he murmurs. "I've got you."
And something about the combination—the reassurance, the fullness inside me, the taboo touch of his thumb—finally pushes me over. The orgasm crashes through me with unexpected force, tearing a sound from my throat that is wild and unrecognizable to my own ears.
My entire body convulses around him, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it's almost like pain.
I feel him swell inside me, his rhythm becoming erratic.
Dane falls forward, covering my back with his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist to hold me against him as he comes with a deep, guttural groan against my neck.
His body shudders against mine, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress.
We stay like that for a moment, both of us trembling and slick with sweat.
"Jesus," he breathes against my skin, his voice wrecked. "You're incredible."
I make some unintelligible sound in response. My brain's offline, still floating somewhere near the ceiling.
He slips out of me slowly, making me wince slightly, and rolls to his side, bringing me with him so I'm cradled against his chest. For a minute, we just breathe together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs into my hair, pressing a kiss to my temple. "So perfect."
I should probably roll my eyes at the praise—I'm twenty-five, not twelve—but something about those words in his deep, gravelly voice makes my chest warm and my body melt further into his.
"You okay?" he asks, propping himself up to look at my face.
"I think you broke my brain," I mumble. "And possibly my legs. Don't expect me to walk anytime soon."
His laugh is low and satisfied. "Let's see about that."
Before I can protest, he's scooping me up in his arms like I weigh nothing. The casual display of strength shouldn't still be surprising, but my stomach does that little flip thing again.
"Where are we?—"
"Shower," he says, carrying me to my tiny bathroom. "You're going to be sore tomorrow."
"Already sore now," I admit as he sets me down carefully on the bathroom mat.
He turns on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand before helping me step in. The warm water feels amazing on my overheated skin. Dane steps in behind me, his big body taking up most of the space in my shower stall that was definitely not designed for two.
Without saying anything, he reaches for my shampoo, squeezes some into his palm, and starts washing my hair. His strong fingers massage my scalp, and I practically purr under his touch.
"You don't have to do this," I murmur, even as I lean back into his hands.
"I want to," he says simply, like it's the most natural thing in the world to be taking care of me like this.
He rinses my hair carefully, then grabs my body wash. His hands move over me with reverence—gliding over my shoulders, down my back, across my stomach. When he kneels to wash my legs, I have to steady myself against the tile wall.
"Turn," he instructs gently.
I obey, and he massages my calves, working his way up to my thighs where I know there will be bruises tomorrow from his fingers.
His touch is different now—not sexual, but attentive.
Caring. He's carefully cataloging every place he marked me, every spot that might be tender tomorrow, and soothing it with his touch.
It's strangely intimate, more so even than what we just did in bed.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the spray of water.
He looks up at me, water dripping from those ridiculous eyelashes of his. "Because you deserve to be taken care of."
Simple words, but they hit me like a punch to the gut. No one's taken care of me like this—not in a long time. I've been so busy being strong, being independent, proving I don't need anyone, that I forgot how nice it feels to just... let someone in.
Even if it's just for tonight. Even if it's just this dangerous, beautiful man with his haunted eyes and gentle hands.