Chapter 10 #2
This time when we walk, it's with purpose.
His hand grips mine, firm and sure, and the night air keeps clearing my head with each step.
The familiar streets of Coyote Bend pass in a blur of porch lights and shadow.
His prosthetic catches once on an uneven bit of sidewalk and I steady him automatically, my hand finding his waist, and he looks down at me with something so raw it makes my chest ache.
"We're alone," I say as we reach the shop, because my mouth needs to do something besides imagine what his would taste like.
"I know."
"No one to interrupt us."
"I know."
"We're choosing this."
"Yeah."
He spins me against the shop door before I can ramble more, his body caging mine against the wood, and the solid weight of him makes every thought scatter. His hands frame my face, careful and steady, and he's looking at me like I'm something impossible and inevitable all at once.
"Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Scout—"
"No." I grab his shirt, pull him down to my height. "I'm done stopping. I'm done pretending I don't want this, don't want you, don't—but I need to tell you something first. About what I want. What I need from you."
His eyes search mine, patient and clear. "Anything."
"Inside first."
He gets the door open on the first try, and we climb the stairs steadily—his hand on the rail for balance, me right behind him, my fingers itching to touch but waiting, waiting. The second we're in the loft, the words tumble out of me in a rush.
"With Evan, he took. Control was about taking, about making me smaller, making me nothing, making me—god, I'm explaining this all wrong—" I'm pacing now, Holt standing perfectly still by the door, watching me with those ocean-dark eyes.
"But that's not what real dominance is. Real dominance is—fuck, how do I even—it's trust, okay?
It's me saying here, take this, I'm giving you this because I know—I trust that you'll keep me safe while you take me apart. "
"Scout."
"I want you to take control. Not like him—never like him.
But I want—I need—" I stop in front of him, have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"I want you to be in charge. To tell me what to do.
To hold me down and make me feel safe while you—while we—" My face burns but I push through.
"I trust you. I'm choosing this. Choosing you.
I need you to understand the difference. "
He's so still I wonder if he's stopped breathing. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my bottom lip.
"You say stop, I stop. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation. You understand?"
"Yes."
"I need to hear you say it."
"I understand. Stop means stop."
"And if you can't speak?"
"Then—tap out? Three taps?"
"Good girl."
Those two words in that low, commanding voice flood heat through my entire body so fast my knees actually buckle. His thumb presses against my lip and I open for him instinctively, sucking it into my mouth, tasting salt and the faint echo of beer, watching his eyes go dark.
"Fuck." He pulls his hand away, steps back. "You're sure? We've been drinking—"
"We're tipsy at best." I hold his gaze, completely present in this moment. "My head's clear, Holt. I know exactly what I'm asking for. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
I reach behind me for my zipper, fingers finding the pull, starting to drag it down—
"Don't." The command stops my hand mid-motion. "That's mine to do."
My breath catches. He circles me slowly, his gait slightly uneven but purposeful, predatory, and I've never felt more exposed fully dressed.
"You've been driving me insane for weeks," he says, still circling.
"That mouth that never stops moving. These dresses that cling when you're sweating in the shop.
The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention.
" He stops behind me, his breath hot on my neck. "You want me in control?"
"Yes."
"Then here's what's going to happen." His fingers find my zipper, drag it down tooth by tooth, the sound obscene in the quiet loft.
"I'm going to fuck you against every surface in this place.
You're going to take everything I give you.
And you're going to be loud about it so I know exactly how good I'm making you feel. "
"Oh god."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes. Yes, please, yes."
The dress pools at my feet. His hands skim my sides, barely touching, raising goosebumps everywhere.
"Look at you." He turns me to face him, eyes raking over my body in the plain cotton underwear that definitely doesn't match. "So fucking perfect."
"Holt—"
"No." His hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding, and my knees go liquid. "You don't talk unless I tell you to. Understand?"
I nod.
"Words, baby."
"I understand."
"Good." His thumb strokes the pulse hammering in my throat. "Color?"
"Green. So green."
He walks me backward until my legs hit the couch. "Turn around. Hands on the arm."
I do as he says, bending over the arm of the couch, and hear him moving behind me.
The distinctive click of the prosthetic's release mechanism, then him setting it carefully against the wall.
When his weight settles behind me, it's different—he braces himself with one hand on my hip, the other running up my inner thigh.
"This okay?" He asks quietly, and I understand he's asking about more than just the position.
"Yes. God, yes. All of you, any way you want."
His fingers hook in my underwear, dragging them down slowly. The first touch of his fingers between my legs makes us both groan.
"Fuck, you're soaked." He slides two fingers in without warning and my arms give out. "Been thinking about this?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Since—ah—since that first night."
"Me too." He adds a third finger and the stretch burns perfect. "Thought about bending you over the hood of every car in the shop. Thought about you on your knees in the supply closet. Thought about waking you up with my mouth between your legs."
He pulls his fingers out and I actually whine, but then he's lowering himself carefully, gripping the couch for balance, and his mouth—fuck. He licks into me like he's been starving for this, tongue everywhere at once, then sucks my clit between his teeth hard enough to make my legs shake.
"Holt, I can't—"
"You can. You will."
He holds me still when I try to squirm away from the intensity, makes me take it, his tongue relentless until I'm coming with his name torn from my throat. He doesn't stop, keeps going until I come again, until my legs won't hold me.
He pulls himself up, and I hear his zipper. "Still green?"
"Yes, god yes."
"Look at me."
I turn my head, meet his eyes over my shoulder, and he pushes in with one hard thrust that empties my lungs. He's big, bigger than I expected, thicker, and the stretch borders on too much but then he moves and too much becomes exactly right.
"Fuck." His hand tangles in my hair, pulls my head back. "So tight. So perfect. Mine."
"Yours," I gasp.
He fucks me hard, using the couch for leverage, his hand gripping my hip so tight I know it'll bruise.
The wet sound of it fills the loft—obscene, perfect—and I love it.
Love the way he's finally letting go, finally taking what he wants.
His hand leaves my hair to wrap around my throat, pulling me up and back against his chest.
"Touch yourself. I want to feel you come on my cock."
My fingers find my clit, circling fast, and it only takes seconds before I'm clenching around him.
"That's it. Fuck, that's it." His thrusts go erratic, brutal. "Where—"
"Inside. Please, Holt, please—"
"Scout—"
"I don't care. I need you to. Please, I need to feel you—"
He comes with a sound that's barely human, grinding deep, holding me so tight I can't breathe and I don't care.
We stay frozen for a moment, both panting. Then he pulls out carefully, helps me stand, and kisses me for the first time. It's consuming, all tongue and teeth, tasting like me and him and us.
"Bed," he says against my mouth. "I need—the bed."
We move to the bedroom, and he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me between his legs. His hands roam my body while he looks up at me, and there's something vulnerable about him sitting while I stand.
"You're beautiful," he says, then seems surprised he said it out loud.
"So are you." My fingers trace the scars where his thigh ends, and he shivers. "All of you."
He pulls me down into his lap, my back to his chest, spreading my thighs wide over his left leg—the intact one, giving him leverage.
"Ride me."
I sink down onto him, the position making him feel impossibly deep, and when I start to move he stops me.
"Slow. Want to feel every inch."
The torture of it, the way he makes me work for every bit of friction, has me babbling. Begging. His hands roam everywhere—pinching my nipples until they ache, rubbing my clit but never quite enough.
"Please," I sob. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?"
"More. Harder. Please fuck me harder."
He shifts us suddenly, turning me onto my stomach on the bed.
Then he's covering my body with his, pushing back inside me. This position, with him fully over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, makes me feel small and safe and completely his. He fucks me slow and deep at first, his mouth against my ear.
"You feel that?" His voice is rough, wrecked. "Feel how deep I am? How perfectly you take me?"
I can only whimper in response.
"Been thinking about this." Another slow thrust. "About having you under me. About making you mine." His teeth graze my ear. "You're so fucking tight, baby. So wet for me. Just for me."
"Yes," I gasp. "Just you."
"Going to fill you up." His pace increases slightly. "Mark you inside where no one can see. Make it so you feel me for days."
His hand slides under my hip, tilting my pelvis, and the angle change makes my vision white out.