24. Confessions
Chapter twenty-four
Confessions
Doc swears, “On everything good in my life.”
I believe him.
That’s the problem.
Believing him doesn’t make me less angry. It doesn’t erase last night. It doesn’t give me back the hours I spent at the fire station waiting for everyone else to know whether Ellie was safe before I did.
It doesn’t undo the way he looked at me outside the clinic, with Ian’s words still hanging between us.
But it does open something inside of me. Not forgiveness.
I’m nowhere near forgiveness.
But there’s a door where there wasn’t one five minutes ago, and I’m the one who decides to yank it open.
I don't want to hear another word.
I reach out and fist my hands into the fabric of his shirt, the material bunching under my knuckles. I yank him down, hard, pulling his weight with me until we hit the living room carpet with a heavy thud. I don't give him a second to react before I slam my mouth against his.
We hit the living room carpet hard. The impact rattles through my knees and up my spine, but I don’t care. I wrap a hand around his neck and pull him in closer.
I am furious that he shut me out, treating me like a liability or an outsider. And I am utterly, violently angry that despite all of it, the second he admits he wants me, my entire body responds with a desperate, aching compliance.
I do want him.
Doc groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound of surprise and hunger. His hands come up to my waist, holding me with a tentative pressure, as if he’s waiting for me to push him away, waiting for the moment my anger turns into a slap.
I want him to feel it. I want him to feel the vibration of my rage in the way I bite his lower lip, hard enough to draw a hiss of breath. I pull back just an inch, my breath hitching, my eyes locked on his.
"This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven," I whisper, the words sharp and jagged.
"I know," he rasps. His eyes are dark, blown out with want, but he stays still. He isn't trying to smooth this over. He isn't trying to charm me into forgetting. He’s just here, present and raw.
I stop and sit back on his thighs, my chest heaving, staring down at him through the tangled mess of my hair. My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps. The silence of the house crowds in around us.
The restraint radiating off him is thick, almost suffocating. I reach down, my fingers clumsy with urgency as I rip at the buttons of his shirt. One snaps off, clicking against the hardwood beyond the edge of the rug.
I push the fabric off his shoulders, exposing the broad, hard lines of his chest. My nails drag over his skin, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart.
Looking down at the fierce, unblinking hunger in his eyes that he is actively forcing himself to contain, I pull my sweatshirt over my head and then take off my bra. My breasts bounce free and I watch him bite his lip and shift under me slightly.
I slide farther down his thighs.
I reach down and fumble with his belt, my fingers shaking with adrenaline and need. I rip the leather loose and pull his jeans and boxers down and toss them aside. I sit back and kick out of my leggings, the fabric tangles around my ankles and he reaches down and pulls them free.
The air in the living room is cool against me, but the heat coming off Doc is a physical wall. And I want the only thing that feels honest right now, that heat.
His cock, it’s already engorged, pulsing and straining toward me. I wrap my fingers around its heavy weight, squeezing tight. He lets out a choked sound, his head snapping back against the floor. His muscles cord in his arms, his chest heaving.
"Annie," he breathes, a warning and a plea.
I lean forward, my hair falling around us like a curtain, and take him into my mouth. I suck him deep, my throat tightening around the head of his cock, using my tongue to swirl around the shaft while I gaze up at him.
His hips jerk upward, a reflexive surge of need that drives him deeper down my throat. His fingers dig into my scalp, encouraging me, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps. I bob up and down a few times and then slide off him, admiring the saliva left glistening on his shaft.
I straddle him, my knees digging into the carpet on either side of his thighs. I look down at him, seeing the conflict in his face, the desire fighting with the guilt.
It makes me want him more.
I guide him to my opening, the tip of him probing my wetness. I pause, hovering there. I can feel him trembling beneath me, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. He’s waiting. He’s being too careful.
The caution irritates me. "Stop being so fucking careful," I hiss.
A sudden, fierce heat flares in his eyes. "Tell me what you want, Annie," he says, his voice a gravelly, low rumble. "Show me."
I start to sink down over his impossibly thick cock. The intrusion makes me gasp, my eyes squeezing shut as my internal muscles clench even tighter around him. I suck in a breath and slam my hips down the rest of the way, taking the rest of him
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp. He’s stretching me wide, filling me so completely that for a second, the anger vanishes, replaced by a blinding, white-hot sensation of indescribable pleasure.
Doc lets out a loud, guttural groan, his hands finally snapping up to grip my hips, his fingers digging into my skin.
His hips jerk up, but he stops himself, his hands gripping my thighs like vices to hold us both still.
He waits for my eyes to open. When I look down at him, his face is tight with a mixture of intense pleasure and agonizing control.
"You set the pace," he grinds out, his knuckles turning white against my skin.
I lean forward, lift myself and sink back down, hard, using my weight to drive down onto him. Aggressive and demanding. The friction is immediate and electric, a sharp shock of pleasure that makes my nipples draw tight.
I reach down and grab his hands, dragging them to my breasts. “Please,” is all I can choke out.
“Yes,” he whispers and immediately kneads and pulls on them. His thumb and forefinger pinch and tease the incredibly sensitive nipples and it makes me squirm on his cock.
“Mmmm,” he moans and pulls me down closer so he can wrap his mouth around a nipple, sucking and nipping before moving to the other.
I start to move, grinding my pelvis against his, my movements erratic and hard. I’m not looking for a rhythm; I’m looking for an outlet.
He lifts his hips to meet every downward stroke I make, ensuring the contact is as deep and unyielding as possible. He stays anchored, his eyes locked on mine, watching everything.
"You’re so beautiful," he sighs, his voice a low growl. His hands slide down to my waist, his long fingers anchoring me, guiding my rhythm, matching my intensity.
The anger doesn't go away, but it changes. It stops being a wall and starts being a bridge.
I lean forward, pressing my chest against his, my breasts crushing into his skin. I pull him close, my movements slowing from frantic to deep, deliberate. I want to feel every inch of him. I want to feel the way his heart is hammering against my ribs, mirroring my own.
"I'm still... upset," I whisper into his ear, my voice breaking.
"I know," he groans, his grip on my hips tightening, pulling me down harder. "I'll wait. I'm right here."
The trust isn't a sudden flash; it’s a slow leak. The physical chemistry between us is a known variable, a reliable fuse, but right now, it feels entirely different. It’s altered by the real, terrifying emotional risk we’re both running.
Every push of his hips feels like a confession; every hard contraction of my body feels like a demand for truth. He isn't trying to erase the fight or smooth over the hurt he caused with easy pleasure. He's exposing its rawness, letting it exist right here.
I stop mid-stride, my body trembling from the sudden interruption of the pleasure building in my lower belly. I look down at him, my fingers digging into his chest. "Bedroom," I choke out.
He doesn't hesitate. He disengages smoothly, a low grunt escaping him at the separation, and pushes himself up. He picks me up and moves us quickly to the bedroom.
We tumble onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my bare back, but the heat between us doesn't let the chill last.
He kneels between my legs, his chest rising and falling in harsh, heavy heaves. He pulls my knees up and slides his palms down along my inner thighs. He parts them open wide, pinning them back against the mattress.
He leans in, his lips kissing their way across the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, a violent shiver rips through my spine and makes me jump. He doesn’t rush. He moves lower, his breath ghosting over my folds a split second before his tongue finds me.
A sharp gasp tears from my throat. I twist my fingers into the sheets, biting my tongue so I don’t scream.
The direct friction of his mouth is overwhelming.
He’s tasting me with a fierce, possessive hunger, his tongue sweeping over me in long, heavy strokes that force my back to arch off the mattress.
It’s too much. I want to push him away because it feels too raw, but the pleasure is an absolute dictatorship. I reach down, my hands finding his hair, my fingers tangling in the thick strands. I don’t pull him away. I dig my fingers in, holding him tightly against me, demanding more.
Doc responds to the aggression. He deepens the contact, his lips sealing around me and sucking hard, his tongue works with a steady, relentless rhythm that knows exactly how to break me. He starts nipping at my clit.
The pleasure coils tight and violent in my gut. My hips jerk against his mouth, silent and demanding. I shatter. The orgasm rips through me, violent and consuming, pulling a loud, uncontrolled scream from my throat.
“Yes,” echoes through the room.
He stops.