Chapter 36 #2
“You’re mine,” he stated, punctuating each word with a deep, driving thrust. “Every. Part. Of. You. That bastard never touched this. This is mine.”
“I know,” I gasped, the truth of it cracking my voice. “I know, Cade.”
His control began to fray. His thrusts grew faster, harder, his rhythm becoming more urgent.
The kitchen echoed with the sounds of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against skin, his ragged pants, my high, desperate whines.
The coil inside me, which had never fully unwound, snapped back tight with a vengeance.
“Cade, I’m gonna—”
“Come for me, Pip,” he demanded, his hand slipping between us to press his thumb against my clit.
That was all it took. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and all-consuming, ripping through me in violent, endless waves. My back arched off the counter, a scream tearing from my throat that was pure release. I clenched around him, milking him, my vision blurring at the edges.
The feel of me pulsing around him broke him.
With a raw, shattered shout of my name, he drove into me one last, deep time and came, his hips stuttering, his whole body shuddering against mine.
I felt the hot rush of him inside me, and a second, smaller ripple of pleasure echoed through my spent body.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our heaving breaths and the rain. He stayed buried inside me, his weight slumped over me, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His lips moved against my damp skin.
He finally, carefully, pulled out, helping me sit up. My body felt boneless, used, gloriously sore in entirely new ways.
He grabbed a clean dish towel from a drawer, running it under warm water at the sink before gently cleaning between my legs. The domestic intimacy of the act, after the raw passion, made my heart squeeze.
“Can you walk?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning my face.
“Yes,” I answered, and I needed him to know I might feel pain, but I was alive, and tonight was the first time he had treated me like I was since it happened.
He helped me off the counter, my legs wobbling. He quickly pulled his jeans back up, then gathered my clothes. Instead of handing them to me, he simply swept me into his arms, cradling me against his chest.
“Cade—” I started.
“Hush,” he murmured, carrying me out of the kitchen, through the dark living room, and up three flights of stairs.
I could have walked them, and he knew that. But all I felt was that, for a minute, we had been us again. Not all the way back yet, but close enough to breathe.
He shouldered the door open and laid me gently in the center of his bed. The familiar scent of his cologne and soap, and now me too, was intoxicating. He disappeared into the connected bathroom for a moment, returning with a glass of water and two painkillers from the bottle at the sink.
“Take these,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
I did, swallowing them obediently. He took the glass back, set it on the nightstand, and then just looked at me in the dim light filtering in from the bathroom. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, my collarbone, over a bruise on my wrist.
“I wasn’t gentle,” he said, a shadow crossing his face.
“I didn’t want gentle,” I answered honestly. “I wanted you. All of you.”
He nodded slowly, then stood to strip off his pants.
I watched him from the center of the bed, propped up on my elbows, the comforter a soft pool around my hips.
The ache in my side was a distant, manageable throb, utterly drowned out by the liquid heat still pulsing between my legs and by the sheer, awe-struck focus of watching Cade strip.
He’d set me down with such care, like I was made of spun glass, but now there was a different kind of intent in his movements.
He stood at the foot of the bed, backlit by the faint ensuite light, and his fingers went to his boxers.
The simple cotton boxer briefs, already strained and damp in places, fell to the floor.
The sight of him, that thick, hard length springing free, already slick from being inside me, made my mouth go dry all over again. He wasn’t soft. Not even close. He was still fully, brutally erect.
But it was his torso that held me spellbound. He pulled his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion, and the breath caught in my throat.
Hockey had carved him from stone and sinew.
Broad shoulders tapered down to a defined waist, every muscle cut with the functional strength of an athlete instead of the polished vanity of a man who worked out just to be looked at.
His chest, his stomach, the deep lines of his hips, the dark trail of hair leading down to the base of him—it all held me spellbound.
Old scars, white and silvery, mapped his skin.
A slash across a rib. A puck-sized dent on a hip.
The familiar, knotted terrain of his back.
He was a landscape of violence and strength, and in this moment, he was all mine.
He saw me looking. His eyes, dark and predatory in the low light, locked on mine as he kicked his jeans the rest of the way off. He was completely naked now, utterly unselfconscious, a primal display that sent a fresh wave of wetness between my thighs.
“See something you like, Pip?” His voice was a low rasp, a thread of dark amusement in it.
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, my gaze drinking him in.
He moved then, not with the frantic haste of the kitchen, but with a deliberate, predatory grace.
He crawled onto the foot of the bed, his movements making the mattress dip.
He came up over me, not touching yet, just looming, his heat radiating against my skin.
He braced himself on his hands, caging me in, his eyes tracing a path from my face, down my throat, over my bruised breasts, my stomach, to the junction of my thighs.
“I told you,” he said, the words dropping like stones into the quiet room. “I told you I wouldn’t stop.”
A shiver, delicious and fearful, raced down my spine. This wasn’t the Cade who helped me the last four days. This was the Cade from the kitchen confession, unleashed. The one obsessed. The one who’d been holding back a tsunami.
This was my Cade.
My Cross Check.
“I know,” I whispered.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. “Good.”
His head dipped. He didn’t kiss my mouth. He kissed the center of my chest, between my breasts, then lower, his lips and tongue painting a wet, hot trail down my sternum, over my quivering stomach. He nuzzled his face between my legs, inhaling deeply, and the groan he let out was purely animal.
“Holy shit,” he muttered against my skin. “You smell like me now.”
The filthiness of his words, the raw possession in them, made me moan. My legs fell open of their own accord, a silent, desperate invitation.
He didn’t need another. He settled between my thighs, his shoulders pushing my legs even wider, opening me up completely to his gaze, his touch, his mouth. The vulnerability was absolute, and it set every nerve on fire.
“You have me spinning because I want to unleash every filthy thing I ever thought about you,” he breathed, his thumb coming down to part my folds. I was swollen, glistening, utterly exposed. “Just so you know how deep I feel you. How bone-deep you are inside of me.”
He leaned in and licked, not a teasing stroke, but a long, flat, possessive lap from my entrance all the way up to my clit. I cried out, my hips jerking off the bed.
“Uh-uh,” he chided softly, his hands sliding under my ass, lifting me, holding me in place for his mouth. “You stay right there and take what you asked for, Pip.”
And then he began to feast.
This was nothing like before. This was filthy, graphic, and utterly relentless.
He ate me like it was his request, with a focused, obscene dedication to my clit and the drenched hole below.
His tongue speared inside me, fucking in and out in shallow, rapid thrusts, the wet, slick sounds obscenely loud in his room.
He sucked on my inner lips, pulling them into his mouth with a soft pop before diving back in.
He circled my clit with the very tip of his tongue, so fast and light it was maddening, before flattening it and applying brutal, perfect pressure.
“You taste like sugar wrapped in sin,” he groaned against me, his breath hot. “You wanna come again, don’t you? You’re clenching on my tongue, begging for it.”
“Yes,” I sobbed, my hands fisting in the sheets. “Please, Cade, please, I need—”
“You need my cock,” he finished for me, his voice muffled against my flesh. “You need this fat fucking dick splitting you open again. I know. I can feel it. Your little pussy is pulsing for it.”
This side of him was unlike any side I had seen yet. The pushed-too-far side maybe, but I was so spun out he only made it hotter. Made me feel like he was worshiping me out loud with every filthy word he confessed.
He added a finger, sliding it deep inside me alongside his tongue, curling it. The dual sensation, the stretch, the pinpoint pressure—my vision spotted. He added a second finger, scissoring them gently, stretching me further, preparing me for what was to come.
“Gonna fuck you so deep, Pip,” he promised, his words a hot promise against my clit. “Gonna plant my cock so deep in you nothing else will ever fit. You’ll feel me in you for days. Every time you walk, you’ll remember my dick fucking you until you are raw.”
The graphic imagery, the crude, possessive words, were the final key.
The coil, wound so impossibly tight, shattered.
My orgasm ripped through me with a violence that stole my voice.
It was a silent, screaming convulsion, my body bowing off the bed as my ribs screamed in protest I just didn’t give a shit about.
He held me fast, his mouth locked on me, drinking every pulse and shudder, his fingers working inside me, prolonging the waves until they were almost painful in their intensity.