Chapter 13 #4
He grabs my thighs, slams back into me with a groan that sounds like it's ripped from his soul. His pierced cock stretches me open, the metal bead dragging against my walls with each brutal thrust. The ridge of his head hits that spot deep inside that makes my vision blur.
There's no rhythm—just chaos.
My pussy clenches around him, greedy and pulsing. I feel every thick inch, every vein, the way he throbs inside me when I dig my nails into his skin. The table creaks beneath us, sticky with syrup and sweat, chocolate melting between our bodies as he pounds into me relentlessly.
I'm gasping, crying out, my walls fluttering around him as he’s biting my neck, muttering broken, dark things against my skin.
“So fucking perfect…”
“So sweet…”
“Fuck—I should’ve stayed away—but I can’t—I can’t—”
And when I shatter again—screaming, shaking, soaked—
He follows me over the edge, body convulsing, mouth on my neck, growling my name like it’s a prayer and then we just lie there stuck to each other with syrup and sin.
Breathless.
Broken open.
Completely fucking ruined.
We're still tangled—still panting—still a mess.
Chocolate drying tacky between my thighs, syrup making his chest hair stick to my breasts with every breath.
And his cock? Still buried so deep I can feel his pulse there, throbbing against that spot that makes my vision blur.
My body moves before my mind catches up—tiny, desperate circles of my hips, grinding down on him, chasing that aftershock that's building again.
The friction makes my breath catch, makes my back arch.
He notices—his fingers dig into my waist, guiding the roll of my hips as he groans against my throat, the vibration shooting straight down my spine.
“You trying to kill me, butterfly?”
“You started it,” I whisper, nails tracing the syrup trail down his stomach. “I was just here for pancakes.”
“You are the fucking pancakes.”
He pushes up on his forearms, eyes dragging over me like he’s seeing me for the first time—seeing all the chocolate, the chaos, the wreckage.
“You’ve got no idea how dangerous you are, do you?” he mutters. “You crawl into a man’s ribs and set up fucking camp.”
I smile, wicked. “Then feed me, soldier.”
His mouth crashes to mine before the words even finish. He flips us without warning, pinning me to the table, plates crashing to the floor, syrup splashing, his grip bruising my thighs as he yanks them around his waist and slams into me again.
Each thrust drives into me with bruising force, his cock stretching me so wide I can barely breathe.
Heat radiates between us, our skin feverish where we connect.
His rhythm is relentless—deliberate, punishing—like he's trying to brand himself inside me.
The table protests beneath us, wood groaning against tile with each savage snap of his hips.
Syrup glues us together in places, making a wet, obscene sound when our bodies separate then slam back together.
His fingers slide up my neck, wrapping around my throat with possessive pressure—not enough to choke, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm.
His forehead crashes against mine, our ragged breaths mingling as he stares into my eyes, refusing to let me hide from what he's doing to me.
“I should be getting dressed,” he pants. “I should be putting space between us.”
“Then go.”
“Tell me to,” he growls.
I stare up at him—eyes full of heat and defiance and so much fucking need I think I might actually break. “I don’t want space,” I whisper.
His hand tightens. “Then I’m gonna fuck you until we forget the whole world exists.”
His hips slam into mine, cock stretching me open with each brutal thrust. The table scrapes against tile as he pounds deeper, harder, his sticky fingers digging into my thighs.
Sunlight catches the sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle as he drives into me.
I taste chocolate when he crashes his mouth to mine, feel syrup pulling at my hair when he yanks my head back to expose my throat.
His teeth find my pulse. His hand finds my clit.
"Fucking take it," he growls, and I shatter around him, clenching, crying out as he fills me, his body jerking against mine, both of us gasping, trembling, ruined.
When we finally stop moving, he collapses against me—forehead to my chest, hand still wrapped around the back of my neck like he needs the contact and he says the quietest thing I’ve ever heard from his mouth. “Don’t leave before I come back.”
His voice is soft. Frayed. Like the words cost him. Like they’ve been carved out of somewhere deep inside him he never lets anyone see and they hit me like a fucking gut punch.
I stare at him, this beautiful, broken man lying half on top of me—his lips still sticky from syrup, his fingers still warm on my skin—and I feel like the worst kind of liar. The cruelest kind of coward.
He just asked me for the one thing I can’t give him and I wish I could. I wish I could promise I’ll be here when he gets back, curled up in his bed, wearing his hoodie and annoying him with my coffee orders and sneaking kisses when he’s grumpy in the morning.
“I…” I swallow, my voice barely audible. “Dax…”
He lifts his head, those too-blue eyes locking on mine, something raw and dangerous sparking in their depths like he already knows I’m about to say something he won’t like.
“I can’t promise that.”
The silence between us stretches into something physical, a third presence in the room, while his hand—the one that had just moments ago pressed against my pulse with such certainty—slides away from my throat with the hesitant retreat of a tide pulling back from shore, leaving nothing but cooling skin and the ghost-print of fingers that had promised permanence but delivered only temporary possession, his eyes fixed on some point beyond my shoulder as if whatever had possessed him moments ago had fled, taking with it all the humid heat we'd generated, leaving the air around us thin and suddenly, achingly cold.
“You can’t promise…” he echoes, eyes narrowing just enough that I feel it like a cut.
“I’m not going anywhere yet,” I rush out, sitting up, sticky and aching and panicking, “but I—there’s something I haven’t told you.”
“Clearly.”
“Please don’t do that,” I whisper.
He’s already climbing off me, grabbing his jeans like he needs armour between us now. Like my words just flipped a switch and dragged us back to the very beginning.
“Tell me then,” he says, not looking at me. “Before I decide I don’t want to know.”
I realise I’m still naked. Still trembling. Still covered in syrup and shame but if I lie now—I lose him anyway.
“I got accepted… for medical volunteer work. Overseas. It’s something I applied for years ago when everything was different, and I didn’t think I’d even hear back, but I did. I’m leaving a month after you.”
Silence stretches between us like a tightrope, our breathing suspended in the sticky air, his jaw clenching and unclenching with each second that passes, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows whatever words he might have said, his eyes darting to the door then back to me, fingers curling into fists at his sides before slowly unfurling, shoulders hunched forward as if bracing for impact, and when he finally turns, the light catches the wetness in his eyes, transforming them into fractured glass.