22. Jenna #2
“You’re fucking trouble,” Dominic grits, but he kisses me punishingly and fists both hands in my hair, tipping my head back.
He bites the line of my jaw, then my neck, all but pinning me to the workbench.
My shirt rides high, exposing the tops of my thighs to the cool air, but it’s nothing to the heat in his hands as he drags his palm up under the fabric, to cup one breast and squeeze until it aches.
I pull him free of his jeans, stroking him, slow and lazy, because I want to see what it feels like to control even half a second of the narrative. His cock is heavy and hot and twitching in my hand, and he shivers when I thumb the leaking tip, just for the fun of watching him break.
His whole body goes taut, like I’ve pulled a wire inside him that runs straight to the part of his brain labeled Give Her Everything.
He presses closer again, mouth locked on mine, and the next thing I know he lifts me fully onto the workbench, planting both hands on my thighs and pushing them open.
I want to make him sweat, so I wrap my legs around his hips and drag him forward with force, and he responds instantly, rutting his cock against my center so hard I groan.
He breaks the kiss, breath hot against my cheek. “You want it right here?” he says, voice guttural, reverberating in the cement like a second heartbeat.
“I want you everywhere,” I say. And I do. In my marrow, in my teeth, under my skin.
He doesn’t waste time, just yanks my panties aside and shoves in.
I gasp—no, I yell, the echo cannoning off the industrial walls and straight up the fucking pipes, and he nearly splits me in half with the first thrust. My head drops back and I tunnel my hands under his shirt, gripping tight to his slick skin, and for an instant I’m nothing but heat and pressure and the way he fills me.
He’s everywhere, hands on my skin, lips at my throat, tongue and teeth.
A piston, punishing and perfect. I bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
I always thought I liked sex for the control of it—how tidy, how transactional.
You say what you want and you get it, clean hands, no feelings.
But with Dominic it’s never clean. It’s a disaster, a train wreck of skin and will and the kind of pressure that makes me want to ruin everything I spent years building.
I want to leave marks, break things, get broken in return.
I want him to fuck the voice out of me so the only thing left is the raw, animal sound of need.
He knows this—has since the first time he got me naked.
And he fucks me with his forehead pressed to mine, eyes open and bright with that starved focus that is so much more than want.
He says my name, full, in a voice I don’t recognize, and it’s the first time I realize he’s the one shaking now.
Me, leveraged up on the bench with my legs around his back, riding the friction until I think I might dissolve.
“Jenna,” he pants, sweating against my skin, “don’t let go.”
I don’t. I never do, but even if I wanted to right now my body wouldn’t let him out of me.
I cling, nails raked up his spine and my knees cinched tight at his ribs, the whole world funneled down to the electric pulse inside me.
I want him deeper. I want him so deep that whatever comes after sixty days, it’s already impossible to unspool us.
The angle is merciless—bench higher than his hips, my ass almost over the edge, his hands full of me. I grind back, desperate for more friction, and he matches my rhythm, the movement so pure and unstudied I forget to be embarrassed by the noises coming out of me.
He eats every one of them, mouth searing my shoulder, his breath a chain of filthy promises in my ear.
“You’re so fucking hot like this.”
Thrust.
“I love how tight you get when you squeeze me.”
Thrust. Thrust.
“I want you like this every morning, greedy and messy and mine.”
“Say it again,” I choke, and it’s not a command, it’s a plea.
He hooks his arms under my knees, spreading me wider, and fucks me harder.
“Mine. God, Jenna, you’re mine.”
For the first time, I say it out loud, “I’m yours. Fuck, I’m yours, Dominic.”
He shudders, every muscle gone to steel, and slams in even deeper, so much deeper, and I come.
It hits like a live wire. Muscles locked, eyes unfocused, mouth open but nothing coming out.
I cling to him, lost to it, shuddering with the kind of release that makes me forget every single fucking reason not to want this.
Not to want him, like this, forever and again and always, until wanting him feels elemental, as necessary as oxygen.
He follows. I feel it, the way his hips stutter, the way his hands grip hard enough that I’ll probably wear thumbprints for the rest of the morning. He breaks, buried in me to the hilt, head dropped to my shoulder.
“Fuck, Jen.”
After, we stay welded like that, both of us panting and a little ruined, and I wait for the panic to set in.
For the self-recrimination, the fear, the sharp-edged voice of survival that tells me everything weak is a prelude to a bill coming due.
But all that comes is breath. And the sound of his heart, hammering its own argument against the world’s tendency to erase itself.
He pulls back, just enough to look me in the eye, sweaty, grinning, still inside me. “You’re a machine, Pemberton. A beautiful, merciless machine.”
I snort, and I don’t even try to make it pretty. “You say that like you’re not about to beg for overtime.”
He kisses me, slow and deep, as if we’re not both covered in grease and in desperate need of a shower.
I tip my head back and look at him—grease on his face, swollen lips and his hair a total mess from my hands—and my chest does something complicated enough that my mouth follows.
“You know, Dominic. Being married to you isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
His whole face opens, and a laugh bubbles out from deep within his chest. He pulls me up his body and kisses me once, thoroughly, before pulling back with a grin of pure contract-signing triumph.
“Not the worst thing,” he repeats. “I think I want that engraved inside my ring.”