Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Trudy
I woke slowly, awareness creeping in through layers of sleep. Something warm. Something wet. Something...
Oh God.
My eyes flew open as sensation crashed through me, my back arching off the mattress. Stephen was between my thighs, his broad shoulders forcing my legs wider, his mouth working against me with devastating precision.
“Stephen.” His name came out as a gasp, my hands flying to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. Just growled against my pussy, the vibration making me cry out. “That’s right, baby. You’re awake now. You’re wet and ready for me, and I’m gonna make damn sure you remember why you’re mine.”
Jesus Christ.
Terry had been gentle. Considerate. He’d touched me like I was something fragile, something that might break if he wasn’t careful.
Harold had been passionate. Attentive. He’d made love to me like it was an art form, something to be perfected.
But Stephen... Stephen ate my pussy like he was starving for it. Like he owned it. Like he had every goddamn right to wake me up this way and make me come apart before I was even fully conscious.
“Fuck,” I gasped, my hips rolling against his mouth. “Stephen, I...”
He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my soaked flesh. “You what, darlin’? You gonna tell me to stop?”
“No,” I whimpered. “God, no.”
“That’s what I thought.” His voice was pure gravel, rough and possessive. “Damn right, no. This is mine. You’re mine. Now shut up and let me eat my breakfast before I lose my goddamn mind.”
Then his mouth was on me again, his tongue circling my clit before sucking it between his lips, and I stopped thinking altogether.
The orgasm hit me like a freight train, ripping through my body with an intensity that made me scream. My thighs clamped around his head, my back bowing off the bed, my fingers gripping his hair so hard it had to hurt.
He didn’t care. Just held me down with those big hands on my hips and kept going, kept licking and sucking and fucking me with his tongue until I was sobbing.
“Too much,” I gasped. “Stephen, it’s too?—”
“You can take it.” His voice was muffled against me, commanding. “Give me another one.”
“I can’t?—”
“You can.” He slid two thick fingers inside me, curling them just right, and I shattered again.
This time when I came, I felt it everywhere. In my toes. In my fingertips. In the base of my spine. It rolled through me in waves, each one stronger than the last, until I was nothing but sensation and need and his name on my lips.
When he finally pulled back, his beard was soaked, his eyes dark and hungry as he looked up at me from between my thighs.
“Fucking beautiful,” he growled, his voice rough and possessive as he crawled up my body. “You know that? Love watching you come apart for me like that. Love watching that pretty pussy squeeze around nothing, desperate for my cock. You’re mine. Every goddamn bit of you.”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All I could do was lay there trembling as he crawled up my body, all muscle and ink and raw masculine power.
He kissed me, and I tasted myself on his tongue. It should have embarrassed me. Instead, it made me moan into his mouth, my hands sliding down his back to grip his ass.
“Need you,” I whispered against his lips. “Please, Stephen.”
“Yeah?” He positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing against me. “Need my cock, darlin’?”
“Yes.” I wrapped my legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer. “Please.”
He pushed inside in one hard thrust, filling me completely, and I cried out at the stretch of it. He was so fucking big, so thick, and I was still sensitive from coming twice already.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. “Take all of me. Every fucking inch. You feel that? That’s my cock buried deep in that gorgeous pussy, and you’re gonna remember who gave it to you.”
He started to move, and it was nothing like the gentle lovemaking from before. This was raw. Primal. His hips snapping against mine with bruising force, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wider so he could go deeper.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and my eyes flew to his. “Want you to see who’s fucking you. This is mine now, Trudy. This body, this pussy—all of it. You hear me? Want you to remember this every time you sit down tomorrow.”
I would. God help me, I would.
The headboard slammed against the wall with each thrust, the sound obscene in the quiet morning. His dog tags swung between us, catching the light, and I watched the muscles in his shoulders flex and bunch as he fucked me.
This was what it meant to be with a biker. Not the leather or the motorcycle or the club. This. This raw, unfiltered intensity. This complete and utter possession.
“Come for me again,” he growled, one hand sliding between us to rub my clit. “Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”
“I can’t.” But even as I said it, I felt the pressure building again, impossible and overwhelming.
“You can. You will.” His thumb pressed harder, circling with deliberate intensity. “I didn’t give you all this dick just to have you give up on me now. Come on, Trudy. Milk my cock. Give it to me.”
And I did. I came so hard I saw stars, my pussy clenching around him, my nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He followed me over, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and came with a roar that probably woke the neighbors. I felt him pulse inside me, felt the warmth of his release, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
This. This was why I’d fallen for him.
Not because he was charming or generous or because he made me feel young again. But because he made me feel alive. Because he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. Because he fucked me like he meant it, like every thrust was a promise he intended to keep.
He collapsed beside me, pulling me against his chest, both of us breathing hard.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered.
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good morning to you too, darlin’.”
I turned my head to look at him, at this man who’d turned my carefully ordered life upside down. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Nah.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, surprisingly gentle after the intensity of what we’d just done. “I’m gonna be the life of you. Just wait and see.”
And lying there in his arms, my body still trembling with aftershocks, I believed him.
Eventually, I slipped out of bed, my legs still unsteady, and pulled on my robe. “I’m making breakfast.”
“Need help?” he called from the bedroom.
“I’ve got it.”
But he followed me anyway, appearing in the kitchen doorway wearing nothing but his jeans, unbuttoned and riding low on his hips. I tried not to stare at the expanse of tattooed skin, the silver hair on his chest, the way those jeans hung just right.
I busied myself with the coffee maker, pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge, trying to focus on the familiar routine of cooking. But then his hands were on my waist, warm and possessive, pulling me back against his chest.
“Stephen—”
“Keep cooking,” he murmured against my neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there.
I cracked eggs into a bowl, trying to concentrate, but his hands were sliding up my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin robe. When I reached for the whisk, he swept my hair to one side and kissed the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
“You’re distracting me,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“Good.”
His hands settled on my hips as I moved to the stove, and even when I thought he’d step back, he didn’t.
He just... stayed close. Touching me. One hand on the small of my back while I flipped bacon.
Fingers trailing down my spine while I buttered toast. Standing behind me with his chin resting on my shoulder while I plated everything.
It was strange. Unfamiliar.
Twenty-five years with Terry, and he’d never been like this. Affectionate, yes. Loving, absolutely. But not... tactile. Not outside of the bedroom, anyway. Sex had been something that happened at night, in the dark, and then we’d go back to our separate routines.
Harold had been passionate, but even that had been contained. Scheduled. We’d meet, we’d have our time together, and then we’d return to our lives.
But Stephen touched me like he couldn’t help it. Like his hands needed to be on me, needed to feel me, needed to confirm I was real and here and his.
And the strangest part?
I liked it.
I liked the weight of his hand on my hip. Liked the brush of his fingers through my hair. Liked the way he kissed my temple while I poured coffee, casual and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sit,” I told him, setting plates on the table.
He did, but when I moved to sit across from him, he caught my wrist and pulled me into the chair beside him instead. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that he could reach over and rest his hand on my thigh while we ate.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, solid and real and here.
After breakfast, I started clearing the dishes, but Stephen stopped me with a hand on my wrist.
“Leave them,” he said. “Come shower with me.”
I should have argued. Should have insisted on cleaning up first, maintaining some semblance of my normal routine. But I didn’t.
I followed him to the bathroom, watching as he turned on the water, testing the temperature. He was moving a little slower than he had earlier, and I recognized it for what it was: he needed time. He was in his seventies, after all, and what we’d done this morning had been... intense.
I understood. Didn’t mind. There was something intimate about just being together, no expectations, no pressure.
The water was hot and perfect when we stepped under the spray. Stephen pulled me against him, his hands sliding down my back, and we just stood there for a moment, letting the water cascade over us.
But as his hands moved over my skin, as I felt the solid strength of him against me, something shifted inside me. A want that had nothing to do with my own pleasure and everything to do with his.
I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were dark, watching me, and I saw the question there. The uncertainty.
I answered it by sinking to my knees.
“Trudy—” His voice was rough, surprised.
I looked up at him through the water streaming down, my hands sliding up his thighs. “Let me.”
For a moment, he just stared at me, and I saw something flicker across his face. Vulnerability. Wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
I wrapped my hand around him, feeling him already starting to harden at my touch, and leaned forward.
The first taste of him made something in my chest tighten. Not from obligation or duty or because it was expected. But because I wanted this. Wanted to see him lose control. Wanted to be the one who made him fall apart the way he’d broken me before breakfast.
With Terry, this had been... perfunctory. Something I did because it was part of marriage, part of the give and take. I’d never hated it, but I’d never understood why anyone would want to do it, either. It was just another task, another way to maintain the relationship.
With Harold, it had been transactional. A way to keep him interested, to prove I was still desirable, still worth his time. I’d done it because I knew it would make him stay a little longer, come back a little sooner.
But with Stephen, kneeling on the shower floor with water streaming over us both, I finally understood.
I understood the power in it. The intimacy. The way his breath caught when I took him deeper. The way his hand came to rest in my hair, not pushing, just... holding. Anchoring himself.
“Fuck, Trudy,” he groaned, his head falling back against the tile. “Jesus Christ, your mouth. That’s it. Take it all. Take every fucking inch of this cock, baby.”
I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper, and felt him shudder. His fingers tightened in my hair, his other hand gripping the shower wall for balance, and I looked up at him through my lashes, watching as his face twisted with pleasure and need.
He was beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Open. Every line of pleasure written across his features, every breath ragged and desperate.
I’d never felt this before—this desire to give without expecting anything in return. This satisfaction in watching someone else come undone. This generosity that had nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with want.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his hips starting to move, careful and controlled even now. “Trudy, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill that mouth.”
I didn’t pull back. Didn’t stop. Just took him deeper, my hands gripping his thighs, eager and demanding, and felt the moment he lost control completely.
He came with a shout that echoed off the tile, his whole body going rigid, his hand fisting in my hair as he pulsed into my mouth. “Fuck, yes. That’s it. Take it all, baby. Take every fucking drop.” I took everything he gave me, swallowing, not pulling away until he was spent and trembling.
When I finally released him and looked up, his eyes were glazed, his chest heaving. He reached down and pulled me to my feet, his hands framing my face, and kissed me with a desperation that made my knees weak.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he muttered against my lips.
I smiled, feeling something warm and satisfied settle in my chest. “I thought you said you were going to be the life of me.”
“Yeah, well.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “Turns out it goes both ways.”
We finished showering in comfortable silence, his hands gentle as he washed my hair, mine careful as I soaped his back. And when we finally stepped out, wrapping ourselves in towels, I realized something had shifted.
This wasn’t just sex. Wasn’t just attraction or chemistry or scratching an itch.
This was intimacy. Real, raw, terrifying intimacy.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t running from it.