Chapter Eight #3
She traces the word again, slower this time, her fingertip pressing into the ink as if she is trying to grasp its meaning.
“You believe in that?” she asks quietly.
I let out a breath that fogs faintly in the cold air.
“Some days,” I admit.
Her hand remains on my chest, warm against my cold skin, resting over the word as if she is guarding it. And for the first time, I don’t consider myself foolish for having it there.
“I think you’re more than you let people see,” she says softly, her palm pressing more firmly over the tattoo.
The words are simple, but they hit much harder than anything else tonight.
I cover her hand with mine. Not to move it, but to keep it there.
I let out a slow breath and brush my thumb along her knuckles, my smirk settling onto my mouth because I do not know how to be anything else.
It’s a reflex. It’s armor. If I joke, smirk, or tilt my head just right, no one pays too much attention to what’s underneath.
“Don’t start rewriting my reputation, Bells.”
“I’m not,” she murmurs. “I just… see you.”
I reach out and push her hair back from her face. She leans into the touch without thinking.
I watch her for a second longer and my hand drops to the zipper of her jacket.
“Sit up,” I say softly. My voice is steady and controlled, but nothing about it reveals that my pulse is still pounding.
She shifts beneath me, propping herself up on her elbows so I can slide the jacket off her shoulders. The mattress sinks as she moves. Her eyes stay fixed on my face the whole time.
I move slowly, peeling the fabric down her arms inch by inch, my knuckles brush her skin as I go. Her breath catches when my fingers skim the inside of her wrist.
I feel it.
I register every reaction.
When the jacket slips off, I toss it aside without looking.
Her boots are next.
I lean back slightly, giving her space, even though my body doesn’t want to move far. I hook my fingers around the heel of one boot and carefully slide it off.
She lifts her leg to help me, while watching my face the entire time.
I set the boot on the floor, then do the same with the other.
“Up,” I murmur again.
She lifts her hips after I unbutton her jeans. My fingers stay steady as I slowly slide the zipper down, gradually peeling the denim off her legs inch by inch.
She shifts, helping me.
I don’t rush or make a spectacle of it. I undress her the way I want to touch her. Carefully, as if she could bruise if I grab too hard.
When the denim slides away and she leans back against my sheets in black lace, my lungs freeze and my mind goes blank. All the confident cocky lines I usually have prepared disappear.
I have chased curves, heat, and quick releases without hesitation. I have had girls arch under me, begging for more, and it never cost me anything.
But this.
She is not acting or positioning her body to impress me. She is not attempting to appear like some fantasy she believes I desire.
She just lies there.
Hair spilled over my pillow. Eyes steady on mine. Chest rising and falling a little faster now.
My gaze slowly drifts over her, to the shape of her waist, the power in her thighs, and the slight tremble she tries to hide and fails.
I swear to God I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
The word almost slips out.
Beautiful.
I clamp my jaw shut before I let it slip, because I do not fucking say things like that.
I slide my palms up the inside of her thighs. She trembles beneath my hands.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
She swallows as I drag my fingertips higher, sensing the heat building beneath the thin lace. Her breath turns uneven and another small sound slips out of her when my thumbs press a little firmer.
I move slower.
My fingertips trace the edge of her panties before dragging over the damp spot. The second I brush the soaked through fabric, she hisses.
A slow, confident smirk forms on my lips.
“You’re so fucking wet already,” I say, voice low. “And I’ve barely touched you.”
My fingertips trace the delicate lace, dragging slowly over the pattern while I watch her reaction instead of the fabric.
Her breath stutters.
I hook my fingers into the waistband and slide them down her thighs, slow enough to make her curse under her breath.
I slide the panties free and slip them into my pocket.
Her gaze flicks to them, before moving back to my face. “You planning on giving those back?”
I grin. “Nope. These are mine now.”
“Pervert,” she says.
I smirk because she doesn’t try to impress me. She just says it, and I fucking love that about her.
A low, rough groan escapes my chest as she opens her legs for me. The sight of her pussy, slick with desire, hits me hard and fast. It’s utterly irresistible, daring me to touch and see how much more I can make her feel.
I let the pad of my finger slide slowly over her pussy, not taking, but tracing. The slick proof of what I’m doing to her.
She sucks in a breath. Her lip slips between her teeth as I trace my fingers over her again, slower this time, with enough purpose to make her hips twitch. A soft moan slips out before she can stop it, and that sound hits me.
Her pussy is warm and slick under my fingers.
My cock aches with need. With want. It’s not the sharp, physical throb I’m used to. The craving grows stronger with every shaky breath she takes. Every soft sound she makes. It consumes me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
I insert one finger inside her, and a groan falls out of me when I register how fucking tight she is.
Her mouth falls open and a moan spills out, soft at first, then stronger when I slowly fuck her with my finger, curling just right.
She grips the sheets, her body tensing and arching toward my hand instead of away. Every time I shift my fingers, she reacts. Every time my thumb brushes higher, catching her clit, her breath shatters.
“Fuck you feel amazing,” I whisper, my gaze locked on her, unable to look away for a moment.
“Jace,” she breathes.
It’s fucking killing me. Every second I’m not inside her, my cock aches so badly it almost hurts, straining for something it hasn’t experienced yet and already can’t live without.
Fuck.
I slowly pull my finger out, watching how her body responds to the loss.
I quickly stand and take off my jeans. They drop to the floor, and I step out of them.
My cock is rock hard. My hand wraps around it, stroking once just to stop myself from doing something reckless. The friction barely helps; if anything, it makes it worse.
“Take off your bra,” I tell her, my voice rough.
She unclips the front and slides it off one shoulder, then the other, before she tosses it onto the floor.
My gaze lowers over her body, taking in the way her nipples tighten in the cold air.
I turn away and reach for the drawer next to the bed. I grab a condom, tearing open the packet with my teeth.
I roll it down over my cock, my jaw clenches as I smooth it into place. I am so damn turned on it almost makes me dizzy.
“Move up,” I tell her, my voice rough and strained.
I climb back onto the bed, settling over her again.
“I need to be inside you,” I admit softly, more to myself than to her. And that’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night.
I lift one of her legs and bend her knee as I settle between them.
My eyes drop straight to her pussy.
Fuck.
This is happening.
My hand wraps around my cock, guiding it between her thighs. Then I push in slowly.
The stretch hits us both simultaneously. A fractured moan escapes her lips, and I swear the sound fills the whole room.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, my head dropping for a second as I sink deeper.
She is tight, warm, and perfect.
My eyes squeeze shut as I go all the way in, my body going rigid from how damn good it feels.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, voice strained.
I place my hands on either side of her and hold there, buried inside her, without moving.
“You feel amazing,” I whisper, leaning down to press a slow kiss in between her tits before lifting my head again.
“Don’t move,” I tell her. “Just… let me get used to this.”
Because if I move right now, if I lose control for even a second, I’m going to blow my load like a loser who’s never experienced a pussy this tight before.
And there is no fucking way I am ruining this.
After a few seconds, I move. Not rough or mindless the way I usually do. I drag out the first thrust, watching her face instead of chasing the friction. My eyes close for half a second because the sensation is that fucking good, but I force them open again because I need to see her.
I’ve heard the rumors. I know what people are saying about me. That I fuck hard. That I don’t care.
I can’t do that with her.
I keep it slow and controlled. My hands steady on her hips as I move inside her, experiencing every inch instead of pounding through it. She gasps beneath me, her fingers gripping my arms.
“Look at me,” I murmur, my voice rough.
She obeys, and damn, that’s what destroys me. Pleasure tightens low in my gut, but I keep the rhythm steady. I feel her responding to me, her body shifting, opening up, the tension softening into something gentler.
She makes another sound, this time more intense, and a sensation spreads through my whole body.
I move a little faster, just enough to change the angle, and her breath shatters. My cock pulses inside her and it takes everything in me not to lose control.
I’m not used to caring whether she feels good or if she’s overwhelmed in the right way. But with Lola, I want it to be perfect.
My forehead presses against hers as I continue moving, my cock sliding in and out of her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, breathless.
That’s when my control slips just a bit. I increase the rhythm, not rough, just more urgent, my eyes locked on hers as she begins to fall apart beneath me. And I swear to God, watching her lose herself like this is better than any ego boost I’ve ever pursued.