24. Confessions #2
He freezes instantly, his mouth still hovering a mere fraction of an inch from my skin, his hot breath vibrating against me. He doesn’t push past my sudden movement. He waits, his hands tightening around my thighs, holding himself completely in check.
He looks up at me. The control he’s exercising makes me want to scream. I’m burning alive.
I want the full, heavy reality of him.
I tug hard on his hair, dragging his face up. His eyes are black with desire, his lips slick and swollen.
"Get up here," I rasp, my voice a broken, sharp command.
He doesn't hesitate. He rises from his knees, a low, guttural sound escaping his chest as he slides up the length of my body. He shifts between my knees, his forearms bracing on either side of my head, pinning me into the mattress under the solid, crushing weight of his chest.
He looks down at me, his face glistening, his eyes totally consumed by the sight of me beneath him. "Annie," he breathes.
"Take me," I tell him, my voice sharp, a direct order. "Now."
He thrusts into me with a sudden, heavy force that knocks the air from my lungs. The angle on the bed is deeper, more visceral. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him deeper into me.
“Fuck,” he cries out.
The rhythm changes now. It is no longer just my pace; it is a shared, relentless drive.
Doc moves with a hungry, desperate strength, his hips driving into mine with a steady, punishing momentum that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine the entire time. He doesn't look away.
The pleasure builds rapidly, a sharp, tightening coil in my gut that makes me arch hard, my fingers clawing at the muscles of his back. It’s a fierce, desperate reclamation.
I feel the shift in his body, the sudden tightening of his thighs, the way his breath turns into a series of short, harsh grunts. He’s on the edge.
"Annie," he chokes out, his grip on my hips tightening until it’s almost bruising.
I feel my climax building, I arch my back, nails raking across his shoulders, my breath coming in sobbing gasps.
"Doc,” I cry.
A second later, the coil inside me snaps. The orgasm hits me in physical shock waves of intense, tight pleasure rippling through every inch of me.
Doc watches the change in my face. He doesn't hold back. He surges upward, his hips slamming into mine with a force that knocks the wind out of me.
He drives into me one last time, his control shattering. His body stiffens, a low roar escaping him as he fills me with hot, thick bursts of cum, as a low, ragged cry tears from his throat. He collapses forward, burying his face in my hair, his chest heaving violently against mine.
He stays inside me for a long moment, his weight a comforting, solid presence, before he slowly withdraws. He rolls onto his back, his arm sliding under my head to pull me against his side. His fingers trace lightly on my bare shoulder.
We lie there for a long time, the only sound is the slow settling of our breathing. The cool night air drifts through the open window, chilling the sweat on our skin.
I stare up at the ceiling, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse against my temple. The frantic, chaotic noise in my head has finally cleared out, leaving me feeling brave enough to face what comes next.
Ready to tell him the truth about Portland.
I take a deep, quiet breath and place my hand over his heart. My voice cuts through the dark with absolute clarity.
“His name isn’t Ian Danvers.”
“Annie?” Doc says and turns his head slightly. “I’m not following.”
He turns on his side, one arm bent, holding up his head. He places his hand on my stomach, covering my belly button, and looks at me with questions, but stays quiet, listening.
For the moment.
I can’t look into his eyes and tell him, so I keep my eyes on the wall. “In Portland, I knew him as Ian Thorne.”
He waits.
“I don’t know if that’s his real name either. I don’t know how many versions of Ian there are. I just know the one I loved was Ian Thorne.”
Loved.
I hate that word in my mouth.
Doc doesn’t flinch from it.
“We met at a hospital fundraiser. He had a project,” I say. “Old building. Beautiful bones. Big restoration plan. Community space. Local vendors. Mixed-income housing. Arts programs. All of it sounded good. It sounded like the kind of thing decent people should want to help.”
I stop there because even now, part of me can hear how perfect it was.
Perfect was the first lie.
“He was good at being convincing,” I say. “Well dressed, pretty. He knew how to make people feel smart for trusting him.”
Doc’s voice stays low. “And you trusted him.”
“Yes.”
No defense. No dressing it up.
“I loved him. I stood beside him at events. I smiled at donors. I talked to people who were nervous. I introduced him to people I knew. My name was connected to his. My face ended up beside his on a brochure.”
“I knew people,” I say. “And people knew me. Or thought they did. So when they looked at him and hesitated, sometimes they looked at me too. And I was there. Standing beside him. Believing in him.”
I close my eyes. “I made him look legitimate and safe.”