Chapter 22
HATCH
My chair legs scrape against the linoleum as I focus all my attention on the screen and Lucy’s ever-reddening cheeks as she quickly adds the Queen of Hearts bookmark in her book.
“Alright, that’s enough of that for you, Chessy. Despite my job, exhibitionism is not my kink. Off you go—I don’t think at least.” She shakes her head, waving off the thought, and sets the book aside to open the porthole wider. “Shoo, mister. Momma needs some alone time.”
The cat gives her a half-hearted hiss before hopping up off the bed and leaping out of the porthole, like this isn’t such an irregular occurrence. Then she settles deeper into her bed, her knees up and slightly parted as she takes the book in one hand… and slides her other under the sheets.
And. Reads. Out. Loud.
I’m so stunned by the filthy words coming out of her mouth—about a guy going down on his best friend’s sister in his security firm team’s work gym—that it takes me way too fucking long to realize her eyes are half hooded and she’s breathless as she speaks while her hips begin to move under the thin quilt.
I’ve seen that look before. Tonight as a matter of fact, right before Lucy almost came just from grinding on my—
“Fuck! I can’t be watching this!”
“God, I love my name in your mouth.” She reads in a breathy voice, and my cock stands at uncomfortable attention, because fuck how I wish I could say the same.
“No, no, no,” I growl, raising my voice over the sound of the rest of the sex scene she’s finding pleasure in, and quickly—loudly—slam my fingers on the keys.
My brain fritzes out over which ones to press and make sure I don’t totally fuck up the system as I try not to watch what she’s doing.
A notification pops up with a jarring ping sound, neither of which I have the time to read nor decipher, so I “X” it out, still pressing all the keys like a kid in a skyrise elevator.
Finally, the interior camera feeds blessedly go black, just as the book falls from Lucy’s hand, and I exhale a sigh of relief, falling back into my chair.
“Fuck,” I groan, swiping my hands over my face, and ending it in a chuckle. “That was close.”
Something rustles, and I turn around, but there’s nothing else in the room moving but me. But then it happens again… accompanied by the faintest moan.
“Hatter.”
My eyes widen and my head slowly swivels to the speakers on the laptop.
Did I… Did I just hear—
“Yes, Hatter, please. Right there.”
“Ah hell no!” I shove back from the table, standing from my chair so fast it clatters to the floor, and yank my hair on end as I pace.
“Hatter, yes. Right… right on my clit.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I shout and leap over the fallen chair to the laptop to turn off the sound, but every button I press pings back at me, the same sound as that stupid pop-up warning that I “X’d” out of. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
My brain is a mess as her moans get louder, echoing in my body and ricocheting pleasure down my spine all the way to my dick, now hard enough to ache.
“I want you, Hatter. Inside me.”
Unsure what to do, I don’t move for a long second. I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I don’t even blink, staring at the black screen that used to show Lucy pleasuring herself. To me.
Well, not my actual name, but fuck, it’s close enough.
And if she’s going to invite me to the tea party, who am I to deny the invitation?
“What? Fuck. No. I can’t…” I shake my head, and close my eyes. “I can’t do that.”
Watching her for her safety is one thing, but this? This is entirely something else, something I’m not sure I’m totally against.
“No, shut the fuck up. We are against it, goddammit.”
“Hatter.”
But there it is again. My nickname falling from her mouth in two full, slow drops. As if I’ve been filling her mind, building on the tip of her tongue, waiting to drip like syrup from a maple.
The tension in me that’s built at the base of my spine all night—hell, since yesterday—has me going mad. Then one more moan comes and I sink back into my chair, at the mercy of her pleading.
My heart hammers as I hold my head in my hands, listening to her get off on some visual of me, and fuck do I wish I knew what she was imagining. I’d give it to her in a heartbeat.
As her breaths get faster, I can’t help myself as I keep my forehead propped on one hand while I slide the other down and curl around myself through the soft fabric of my sweats.
I hiss under my breath at the contact, already too hard and too sensitive after she rode me through my slacks tonight.
I nearly came on the spot then. Now? It’s like we’ve been edging each other all night, even though we never talked or spoke after the Flower Room.
But I won’t take my dick out. No. That’s a line I won’t cross.
I think.
Fuck it, I’ve already crossed so many lines tonight. What’s this one more? I mean, I’m already stopping myself from going back to her boat in the first place and—
No. I’ve got to have some self-control. I’m not known for it, but goddamn, I’m sure I’ve got some somewhere in this dark pit I call a soul.
She moans my name again, the sexy nymph taunting me.
My grip tightens around my cock. I refuse to move, but imagine what it’d be like to have the warmth of her envelop me again.
I felt her delicious heat tonight once already.
Christ, I’d do a lot of awful things to feel her wet pussy around my cock right about now.
There’s an odd rhythmic noise that’s not quite a squeak and not quite a thump, and it takes me too long to realize her mattress is depressing and rising as she’s fucking her hand now. I squeeze my shaft so hard a burst of pre-cum darkens my sweats.
“Faster, Hatter, yes.”
“Fuck, baby,” I curse harshly, shaking my head against my palm as I speak into the dark room. “You’re moaning my name like you know what it’s doing to me.”
I rub my thumb over the sensitive tip through the fabric, and listen as her sheets rustle. She clears her throat and begins reading again. I’m at rapt attention now, her tone heavy and warm, like she’s reading straight to me.
The book is one of those where you’re not actually in the character’s head. Third person, I think they call it? Anyway, every time she says either character’s name, she fills in ours—using her real name—and Hatter, like this sex scene was made for just us in mind.
My jaw tightens.
“Your words, Lucy. Use your words for me. Tell your Hatter what you need.”
The lucky bastard version of myself in her book is getting to feast on her cunt, bringing her to the edge of ecstasy. My own mouth waters, and I drag my hand through my hair, like the Lucy I’m tasting does, grabbing me at the roots.
On its own, my hand strokes my cock through the fabric, rough and nowhere near as tight as I know she would be, rounding the crown with brutal squeezes that send jolts of pleasure up my spine.
I lick my lip and bite it, closing my eyes as I imagine I’m talking to her right in front of me. “Yes, Lucy, fuck, let me taste you, baby. Let me drink this sweet pussy.”
I wrap low around the thick base and slowly drag up the length.
My breath hitches and heat pulses in my palm, pre-cum now soaking the fabric and dampening my hand.
Her voice is in my ear, taunting me, and I stare at the black screen, imagining her behind it, spread out on those sheets, damp strawberry-blond hair fanned over her pillow like a Rossetti painting, eyes half-lidded.
I imagine the way she’d sound if I were between her thighs instead of listening a quarter mile up the marsh like a perverted stalker.
Which I’m not. Probably.
Lucy in the book shudders around my name, and I groan to her, “Yes baby, stroke yourself just like that. It’s my tongue circling your clit.”
She moans back, and my strokes turn rougher, needier, and her breaths quicken. I let the fantasy stretch just enough to keep me right on the edge. The image hits me hard of her body arching, her fingers trembling over her clit, and the pleasure cresting too fast for her to stop it.
I wrap my hand around the base, slow and tight, feeling every pulse of blood like it’s synced to her breath, and I hiss through my teeth.
Every shift of her voice, every breathless pause, my grip tightens and loosens with the rhythm of her voice.
My hips lift off the chair, and I’m pushing into her now.
It’s the Flower Room, but I gave into our darkest needs and pulled her thong to the side, slid my pants down and pushed inside her tight heat, letting her soak me, ride me, fuck me on that throne.
I pump myself faster now, breath ragged, hips lifting as sensation coils tight and tingling in my balls.
My whole body is tuned to her, to the sound of her voice rising, breaking.
Her words are quickening. The Lucy in the book is on the verge, crying out as I suck her clit and press my thumb against the tight hole I wish I could claim too.
“Say it again, baby. One more time, Lucy. Say my fucking name.”
“Hatt–unnn,” Her own moan cuts through the word, slicing it perfectly to sound like my actual name..
Hatton.
I lose it.
I jerk once, twice against my palm, desire punching into me so hard I see white.
My molars crack as I come with her name a broken plea on my lips, tearing out of my chest as everything snaps loose at once.
Heat spills over my knuckles, my stomach clenching hard as release crashes through me, leaving me shaking and spent, hot, thick ropes painting my tatted abs.
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?”
And shit. When did I take my cock out? I don’t even remember that part.
For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing. Mine. Hers. Two separate rooms, one on the marsh, one on the beach, both the same rhythm.
Then I hear movement, the rustle of sheets, water running, and the soft clink of ceramic. The only reason my breathing calms is so I can hear her as she cleans up.
I don’t do the same yet. The thought of washing away any part of this moment feels wrong, like I’d be erasing proof she was here with me, even if she doesn’t know it. So I wait instead, letting the rush of adrenaline and pleasure ebb, letting my pulse slow.
When I hear the squeak of the porthole, an angry yowl, and Lucy settling back into bed, sheets rustling, breath evening out, I finally tiptoe to the adjacent kitchen and clean my hands, abs, and dick with a damp cloth.
Then I sit back down and press enough of the right buttons to turn the screen on again without it yelling at me.
She’s curled on her side now, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the book from Heaven fallen open beside her and the damn cat stretched long down her legs like a body pillow. Her breathing is slow and deep, peaceful in a way that tightens my chest.
I don’t know how long I watch her sleep, but I stop keeping track somewhere around one hundred and thirteen breaths, mine falling in sync with hers.
And for the first time in a long, long time, when sleep finally takes me, nightmares of loss and guilt don’t claw at the edges of my mind. Instead, my mind is filled with me wrapped up in my wife in her bed, both of us content now that she’s alive, safe, and finally in my arms.
A dream I sold my soul to never have.