Chapter 19 #2
"There's the honest one. She's loud when you let her be."
The orgasm is already gathering, residual from the cross, building on the denied release. My thighs lock first. Then my stomach clenches, the deep internal spasm. Then the pulses start where his fingers are working and spread outward.
"Andy." His name comes out as a warning.
"Let go. I want to feel it."
The orgasm breaks on his hand. My body clenches around his fingers so hard that my back lifts off the mattress, the muscles gripping in rhythmic contractions I feel in my spine and the soles of my feet.
What comes out of my mouth is ragged and loud and genuine, pulled from behind the glass that no other Dom has touched.
The release is so complete that my vision grays at the edges, and tears leak from the corners of my eyes, not from pain but from the sheer overwhelming feeling of coming this hard after being held at the edge for this long.
He doesn't stop. His fingers keep their rhythm, gentler now, working me through each aftershock as the contractions slow to rolling pulses.
"I need you inside me." My voice cracks on the word need. "Please."
He withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his mouth. He holds my gaze while he tastes me, his tongue cleaning each finger with a slowness that makes heat bloom low in my belly all over again.
"You taste like you've been waiting for this as long as I have," he says.
"Longer. You made me wait longer. You made waiting into a personality trait."
"Turn over."
The command is quiet and certain. I roll onto my stomach, and his hands grip my hips and lift, positioning me on my hands and knees. One hand presses flat between my shoulder blades, pushing my chest down toward the mattress until my back arches, my ass raised, my face turned into the sheets.
"This is how I want you," he says, and the raw ownership in his voice makes my stomach clench. "Exactly like this."
I feel him behind me, the head of his cock sliding through my folds, catching my clit on the downstroke, parting me without entering, coating himself in the wetness running down my thighs. A whimper escapes me that I could not have stopped if my life depended on it.
"Andy. If you don't fuck me right now, I swear to God I will make your life a living hell."
He pushes inside me in a single, deep thrust.
The stretch steals my voice. He is thick enough that the fullness borders on too much, the muscles still fluttering from the orgasm gripping him in rhythmic pulses I feel in my lower belly.
He bottoms out and holds still, his hands on my hips, his breath ragged on my back, and the sensation of being completely filled after the hours of denial is so acute that my eyes close and my mouth opens on a silent sound.
"Color?" His voice is strained.
"Green. Move. Please move."
He moves. The first stroke is a slow withdrawal that drags along every nerve ending, the friction on my sensitized walls making me bite the sheet. The return is deep and angled to hit the spot his fingers found, and my body answers with an honesty I can't choreograph.
"You feel..." He stops himself. He starts again, rougher. "You have no idea what you feel like."
"Then tell me." I push back against him because I can't not, because the fullness of him hitting that spot on the return is wrecking me in real time. "You're the one who's good with evidence, Detective. Describe it."
His hand slides up my spine and wraps around the back of my neck, holding me down into the sheets, and the pressure of his palm on my nape sends a full-body shudder through me.
"Tight," he says, and the word is rough-edged and specific.
"Wet. You're gripping me so hard I can feel every time you clench.
" He punctuates the observation with a thrust that drives the air out of my lungs.
"And every time I hit this spot..." He angles deeper, and his voice drops.
"You stop breathing for half a second and your whole body locks. "
"I am going to murder you for being this observant during sex."
"You're going to come on my cock while I watch your face. That's what's going to happen."
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I will carry the bruises tomorrow, and the thought of wearing his prints under my clothes while I work the bar sends a spike of heat through me that makes me push back against him.
"Harder," I tell him.
"Ask properly."
"Harder. Please."
He gives me harder. His pace increases, the controlled rhythm giving way to force, and each thrust pushes me up the mattress until he grips the headboard for leverage. The angle shifts, and the new depth hits a place that makes my whole body seize.
"There." The word comes out strangled. "Right there. Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping." His hand leaves the headboard and slides into my hair, gathering it at the nape, tilting my head back. "Not until I feel you come apart."
"I am coming apart, you impossible man." My voice fractures on the last word, the brat splintering under the weight of the vulnerability, and what replaces the sarcasm is raw and exposed and real.
"I've been coming apart since the cross.
I've been coming apart since your kitchen.
I've been coming apart since you sat at my bar and waited. "
His rhythm falters. I feel it, the catch in his hips, the way the controlled pace stumbles for a beat. My words did that to him. The honesty hit harder than anything physical, and that is terrifying and addictive at the same time.
"Say that again," he says, and his voice has shed every layer of composure. "Tell me how long."
"Since your first Woodford Reserve on a Tuesday night." My eyes are stinging. "Since you sat at the far end and watched me with that patient, dismantling focus and I thought, this one will see through it, and I'm not ready. Since then, Andy. Since the beginning."
His hand leaves my hair and wraps around my hip.
He draws me back against him with a force that empties my lungs, and the pace he sets is no longer measured or controlled.
It is greedy and deep and desperate, the answer of a man who just heard the thing he's been waiting to hear and is responding with his body because words aren't enough.
His hand reaches around my hip and finds my clit, slick and oversensitive, and the pressure of his fingers combined with the depth of his thrusts collapses the distance between building and breaking.
"Look at me," he says.
I turn my face from the sheets. His face is close enough that I can see the sweat at his temples and the tendon standing rigid in his neck.
The patience is gone. What's left is raw and possessive and wrecked.
He has watched me from across a bar for months, and he is finally inside me with nothing between us.
"You're mine," he says. The words land like both a confession and a verdict. "Tell me you know that."
"I know that." The admission costs me everything the brat was built to protect. "I've known that longer than I wanted to."
His hips drive forward hard enough to erase whatever I was going to say next, and his hand stays on my clit and his cock hits the same spot on every stroke and the bed protests beneath us and I do not care.
The orgasm rolls through me in a wave that starts where he is buried inside me and radiates outward.
My body clamps down around him in contractions hard enough to pull a groan from deep in his chest, and his name breaks apart in my mouth, fractured by the spasms wracking my body from the inside out.
My thighs lock. My hands fist in the sheets.
The orgasm pulses in deep, rhythmic waves I feel in my cervix and my stomach and my shaking legs, and it lasts long enough that the world narrows to nothing except the place where his body meets mine.
He follows me over. His rhythm fractures, his hand grips my hip, and he buries himself deep and comes with a shudder that runs through his entire body and into mine.
I feel him pulse inside me, the hot spill of him filling me, skin to skin, nothing between us, and the intimacy of that is more exposed than the cross ever was.
The silence that follows fills the room.
He stays draped over my back, his face pressed into the curve of my neck, breathing rough on my skin. I can feel him softening inside me and the slow slide of him leaving my body. His hand loosens from my hip and slides up my spine, and I melt flat into the mattress.
He eases out and turns me gently onto my back. He brushes the hair from my face, and I expect the mask to be rebuilding, the composure sliding back into place. It isn't. He is looking at me with the expression of a man who broke open alongside me and hasn't figured out how to put the pieces back.
"I'm going to get you water," he says. "Ten seconds."
"Five."
"Demanding."
"You love it."
"So I keep being told."
He crosses to the bathroom and returns with a warm cloth and a glass of water.
I drink half of it in one pull. He takes the cloth and cleans me, gentle between my legs where my skin is flushed and oversensitive and slick with both of us, and the care in his hands after the force of what we just did closes my eyes and catches my breath for a reason that has nothing to do with the sex.
He pulls the sheet up and settles against the headboard with me tucked into his side, his hand in my hair, running the slow repetitive rhythm that brings someone back into their body after it's been somewhere unfamiliar.
"I didn't know it could be like that," I say. My voice is small and stripped and honest in a way that terrifies me.
"Like what?"
"Real."
"It's been real since the beginning." He presses his mouth to my temple. "You just weren't ready to let it be."
"That is an obnoxiously accurate observation, and I want it on record that your emotional perceptiveness is criminal."
"Noted." His arm tightens around me. "Denied."
The tenderness is earned and unsettling because tender is not a word either of us would use for what we are. We are sharp edges and stubbornness and a brat who tests every boundary and a Dom who outlasts them all. Tender shouldn't fit.
It fits anyway, and I'm not ready for what that means.
The scar on my arm aches in the way that healing scars ache, a low pull that reminds me the tissue is knitting itself together under the surface. I press my face into his neck and let myself be held, and I am terrified, and I am staying.