Chapter 19 #2
Her breath catches. "Here? We can't—"
"Bend over the table, Hope."
I've thought about this. Every session, every week, sitting across from her at this table while she clicks her pen and asks me questions she already knows the answers to—I've thought about clearing everything off the surface and bending her over it.
The fantasy has lived in my head for months.
Now the cameras are dark and the only light is amber and the only man between us and the corridor has already made his choice.
She turns and leans forward. Her hands flatten on the table surface, her clipboard pushed aside.
The angle puts her facing the door—facing Gage, his silhouette framed in the amber emergency light.
I told her to bend over knowing exactly what the angle would give her.
Her ass presses back against my cock, and when I rock my hips forward she moans at the contact.
"If I fuck you here," I say against the back of her neck, "there's no going back. You understand that? This isn't my fingers inside you under a table. This is everything."
"I know."
"And you want it anyway."
"I want you." She turns her head, catches my eye over her shoulder. "I don't care about the rest."
The smart move is to think about the cameras, how long the blackout will last, the board meeting on Monday, what happens if we're caught—her career, my case, the framework Kent has been building toward an appeal.
But I reach for my waistband instead.
The prison-issued pants are a humiliation I've learned to ignore.
Elastic waist, no belt, nothing sharp or useful.
But they serve their purpose now, sliding down my hips, freeing my cock.
I'm harder than I've ever been—painfully, desperately hard—and when I push her skirt up over her hips and pull her panties aside, the head of my cock brushes her entrance and we both shudder.
Hope reaches back to trace her fingers along my shaft and stops. Her fingertips find the first rung of my Jacob's ladder and she flinches, then touches it again, slower. "What is that?"
"Piercings." I guide myself to her entrance and press in just enough that she feels the first rung. "A ladder. Eight rungs." I lean down, my mouth against her ear. "For your pleasure." The laugh that comes out of me is dark and I feel her shiver at the sound.
"Will I—"
"You'll feel every single one of them." I push in another inch and watch her back arch.
I got them before I went in. A professional job, eight rungs, a chair in a back-street studio in Virginia Beach where the artist didn't ask questions and I didn't flinch.
The nipple piercings I did myself inside the facility with a sharpened pin and nothing for the pain.
Boredom is a dangerous thing in a man with steady hands.
I don't tell her any of that. I sink into her one rung at a time, letting her feel the metal pressing against her walls as I fill her.
"Oh fuck." Her voice breaks. "Jude—oh god—"
"Breathe."
She's tight around me, wet, perfect, and I hold there at the base, giving her time to adjust, giving myself time to pull back from the edge. If I move right now I'll come in thirty seconds, and that's not how this ends.
"Feel that?" I roll my hips, and she cries out as the piercings drag against her walls. "Feel what I'm doing to you?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
I start to move.
The rhythm is slow at first. Each thrust lets her feel the metal, the ridges, every rung dragging against her in a way that makes her whole body shake.
Her pussy grips me and she's making sounds I want to hear for the rest of my life—broken moans, desperate whimpers, my name falling from her lips over and over.
I pull her up off the table and flush against me, her back to my chest, one arm locked around her waist. The table edge hits her thighs with every thrust and she doesn't care.
"Mine." I grip her hip with my free hand, my mouth against her ear. "You've been mine since 'how did you sleep.' I just let you take your time noticing."
"Jude—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours." The words come out on a sob. "I'm yours, fuck, I'm—"
I thrust harder and she wails. The table shudders under the force of it.
Gage is still at the door. I can feel him without looking—his attention, his fury, and the want underneath both. He's watching me fuck her in a psychiatric facility, and there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it except stand there and suffer.
Part of me wants to turn my head, meet his eyes, let him see the triumph on my face while I take what he's been too careful to reach for. But then Hope's hand comes up, reaches back, tangles in my hair. And when I look at her face I see her eyes aren't closed anymore.
She's looking at him.
Her gaze finds Gage at the door and stays there. She doesn't look guilty. Doesn't look sorry. Watching him while I'm buried inside her, acknowledging him while my cock drags in and out of her.
And he's looking back.
The moment stretches. One second, two. She could break eye contact. Close her eyes, turn her face, pretend this is only about us. That's what I want. What every possessive instinct in my body is screaming for.
I don't say a word.
Because my possessiveness—that consuming, all-or-nothing thing I've carried my whole life—doesn't break in that moment. It bends. I feel it happen and I don't fight it. She wants him too. And instead of making me want to kill him, it makes me want to give her what she can't ask for.