Chapter Eight #4
I sense it before she says anything—the way her pussy tightens around my cock, the way her breath shifts, and the way her nails dig into my back, as if she’s holding on to something that’s about to pull her under.
“Fuck,” I groan, my eyes fixed on her face.
She’s close. I can see it in the way her brows pull together. In the way her mouth opens, helpless and desperate.
She clenches around me again and my vision almost whites out.
“That’s it,” I murmur, voice rough. “Let go, Bells. Let this cock take you there.”
She gasps, her hips jerking up to meet mine, and I feel her losing control inch by inch. I keep my rhythm steady, not pounding like always. I want her to experience every moment of it.
“Don’t hold back,” I tell her. “I want to feel you come apart on me.”
Her breath breaks into a moan that sends heat straight through my chest. Her body starts to tremble under mine, little spasms tightening around my cock.
“Jace…” she cries.
“Yeah,” I answer instantly. “Look at me.”
Lola’s eyes snap to mine just as it hits her and her whole body goes tight.
“Fuck,” I groan again, my forehead pressing against hers as I continue, slower now but still deep, letting her ride out every pulse.
She’s shaking, gasping loudly. Her legs tighten around my waist as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“That’s it,” I whisper against her mouth. “Let it happen. I’ve got you.”
Her orgasm ripples through her in waves, her body warm and trembling beneath me. Every nerve alive and on fire. I feel every contraction, every flutter, every desperate squeeze around my cock.
I hold it together… barely… grinding deeper, still watching her face memorizing the way she looks when she comes.
She whispers my name again, softer this time.
“Fuck,” I groan, and I can’t even pretend to hold it in.
It hits me hard. My whole body goes rigid as the orgasm tears through me. My cock pulses inside the condom, my hips stuttering once before I force them still.
Short, rough breaths leave my mouth as I ride it out, every muscle tight. My forehead drops to her stomach and I inhale, dragging in the scent of her skin, grounding myself in it.
Fuck. That was different.
I press a slow, soft kiss to her belly, right below her ribs, my breath still uneven.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath.
Then reality creeps back in.
Carefully. I ease out of her, my head still spinning from how hard that hit. The loss of her warmth makes me hiss under my breath.
I roll off her gently. The mattress creaks beneath us, the thin frame complaining as I shift onto my back.
For a second, I just lie there staring at the ceiling. My chest rises and falls hard, adrenaline bleeding out of me in waves.
Bells lies beside me, quietly breathing.
I push myself up, sit on the edge of the bed, and tie off the condom with practiced efficiency. That part is automatic—muscle memory. I toss it in the trash and sit there, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
This is the moment.
This is where I usually disengage. Zip up. Mutter something casual. Disappear. That is the rule.
I’m waiting for it now. The itch. The urge to detach. The familiar switch that flips and tells me it’s time to go.
But it does not come.
The trailer is quiet except for the faint whistle of wind outside and the sound of Lola breathing behind me. I rub my hand over the back of my neck and stare at the peeling paint on the cabinet across the room.
Move, I tell myself. Stand up. Create some space between you.
Instead, I just sit here with my back turned to her. I can still sense the warmth of her body remaining in the sheets. I expect her to put distance between us because she knows exactly what I am.
The mattress dips slightly.
Then I feel it.
Her fingers. Light. Careful. They brush over the center of my back, slow enough that I know she is not trying to start something again. Just… touching. As if she is making sure I didn’t disappear the second it was over.
Every muscle in my body locks.
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
Girls don’t touch me like that. They grab at me, cling because they want more or because they want me to stay for the wrong reasons.
They don’t lay a hand on my back as if they are checking whether I am okay.
Her fingers trace once, then rest there, warm and steady.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I answer, but it comes out rougher than intended.
I’m not okay. Far from it. Because I’m still sitting here and I don’t want to leave.
Because the autopilot that has kept me safe for years is now silent, and I don’t know how to operate without it.
I rest my forearms on my thighs and glance at the floor a moment longer.
I wait for the numbness. The easy switch that flips me back into the guy who doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. The one that tells me to stand up, pull on my jeans, and tell her to leave so I can reclaim my space.
It never comes.
Instead, there’s a heavy, quiet pull in my chest.
I let out a slow breath.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Then I turn. I don’t make a big deal out of it. I roll back onto the mattress and lie down beside her. On my back. Staring at the ceiling as if this isn’t a big deal.
As if I do this all the time.
She rolls closer, her arm resting loosely across my stomach, and for a second I freeze.
Every instinct I have urges me to move. To peel her away and create space. To remind both of us of the promise we made.
But I don’t. I let her stay. Her hand is warm against my skin, not demanding anything from me.
I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding a bit too much for a guy who just came less than five minutes ago.
And the fact that I am not pulling away right now tells me everything I don’t want to admit.
That’s the moment I realize I am screwed