Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lettie
His mouth was on mine again, devouring me, consuming me entirely.
His tongue swept past my lips, tasting me, claiming me, exploring every inch like he was mapping territory he intended to conquer and keep.
His hands went to the hem of my shirt, and he pulled it over my head in one smooth, practiced motion.
Tossed it somewhere behind him. I didn’t care where.
Didn’t care about anything except the feel of his hands on my body.
The air hit my skin, cool compared to the heat radiating off him in waves.
I could feel the warmth of him even in the spaces where we weren’t touching.
I reached for his cut, pushing it off his broad shoulders.
He shrugged out of it and dropped it on the back of a chair.
I grabbed his shirt and pulled it up, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
He helped me, lifting his arms so I could strip it off him.
The fabric caught briefly on his biceps before sliding free.
His chest was a roadmap of scars and ink.
Muscle and violence and masculine beauty all intertwined.
Each mark told a story. Each tattoo held meaning.
I traced one scar with my fingertip. A long, raised line that ran from his collarbone to his ribs.
The skin was slightly puckered, paler than the rest of him.
“Knife fight,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Three years ago. Guy came at me outside a bar in Reno.”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to it. Kissed the evidence of his survival. Kissed the proof that he was still here, still breathing, still mine. His hands tangled in my hair, and he held me there. His fingers tightened, not quite painful but possessive. Claiming.
“Lettie.”
My name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse, like a benediction and blasphemy wrapped into one word.
His hands moved to the hem of my skirt, lifting it over my hips with deliberate slowness.
I shifted, letting him work my panties down my legs.
He stripped them off in one smooth motion, then tossed them aside.
They landed somewhere near his discarded shirt.
The cool kitchen air hit the apex of my thighs, making me shiver, making me acutely aware of how exposed I was.
I sat on my kitchen table in just my bra, my skirt pushed up around my waist. Exposed.
Vulnerable. The wood grain pressed into my skin, letting me feel every ridge, every imperfection in the surface beneath me.
The table where I’d eaten countless meals alone, where I’d paid bills and read books and pretended my life was exactly what I wanted it to be.
He stepped back just far enough to look at me. His eyes raked over my body like he was memorizing every inch. Every curve. Every flaw. Every imperfection I’d spent years trying to hide. But under his gaze, I didn’t feel the need to cover myself. Didn’t feel shame. Just want. Just need.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
The words struck somewhere deep inside me, leaving me breathless. No one had ever said that to me. Not like that. Not like they meant it down to their bones.
Then he dropped to his knees.
This dangerous, violent man was kneeling on my kitchen floor like I was something sacred. Like I was a deity worth worshipping. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them wider, positioning me exactly where he wanted me. His palms were rough and calloused against my soft skin.
“Lean back,” he ordered. Not a request. A command.
I did. Braced my hands on the table behind me. The position arched my back, pushed my hips forward, opened me completely to his gaze. The vulnerability should have terrified me. Instead, it thrilled me. Made heat pool low in my belly.
He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh. Then another.
Working his way up slowly. Torturously. Taking his time like we had all night.
Like my mother wasn’t asleep down the hall.
Like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His stubble scraped against my sensitive skin, the contrast of rough and soft making me shiver. Making goosebumps rise on my arms.
When his mouth finally found me, I cried out louder than I intended.
My back arched. My head fell back. His tongue was hot and wet and perfect.
He licked through my folds with slow, deliberate strokes.
Circled my clit with the tip of his tongue.
Sucked it between his lips with just the right amount of pressure.
“Fuck,” I gasped. “Brock. Oh God.”
He groaned against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body and making my thighs tremble. His hands gripped my legs hard enough to bruise as he held me open. Holding me still while he devoured me like a man starving. Like I was the first meal he’d had in weeks.
The table creaked beneath me. I could hear the wood protesting, could feel it shift slightly with every movement.
It made everything more real. More visceral.
More immediate. This wasn’t some fantasy in a bed with soft sheets and candlelight.
This was raw and urgent and happening right here in my kitchen where I made tea and cooked dinner and pretended to be normal.
Where I maintained the facade of respectability.
He slid one finger inside me. Then two. Pumped them slowly at first, then faster.
Curled them just right, finding that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids.
The spot I could never quite reach myself.
His mouth never stopped working my clit, licking and sucking and driving me higher and higher.
Building the pressure until I thought I might break apart.
“Come for me,” he growled against my flesh, the words muffled but clear. “Let me taste it.”
I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me with brutal intensity, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
I cried out his name. My hands fisted in his hair, holding him against me while I rode out the waves.
The table groaned beneath me. My thighs trembled.
My entire body shook. I couldn’t control it. Couldn’t stop it.
He didn’t stop. Just kept licking. Kept sucking. Drew out every last tremor until I was boneless and gasping. Until I was pushing weakly at his head because it was too much. Too intense.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened with me in the dim kitchen light. His eyes were dark with satisfaction. With masculine pride at what he’d done to me.
“You taste like fucking heaven,” he said, his voice wrecked. Rough with want.
He stood and reached for his belt, unbuckling it with quick, efficient movements.
The metal clinked. He popped the button on his jeans.
Slid the zipper down. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the quiet kitchen.
His cock sprang free when he shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.
I reached for him, wrapping my hand around his length. He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking forward into my grip. His cock pulsed in my hand, hot and hard and demanding.
“Careful, baby. I’m already close just from tasting you.”
I stroked him slowly. Root to tip. Felt the weight of him in my palm. The heat. The way he pulsed against my fingers. The way the skin moved over the hardness beneath. I twisted my wrist on the upstroke the way I’d read men liked.
He grabbed my wrist. Pulled my hand away. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
He reached behind me and unhooked my bra with practiced ease.
One-handed, before he tossed it aside. Then his hands were on my breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasped.
His hands slid to my hips, pulling me to the edge of the table.
Positioning me exactly where he wanted me. Manhandling me like I weighed nothing.
His cock pressed against my entrance, thick and demanding.
The blunt head nudged against me. He paused.
Looked into my eyes as he pushed forward.
Slow and steady. Stretching me. Filling me.
The burn was exquisite. Perfect. A delicious mix of pleasure and pain.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, needing more. Needing all of him.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. So perfectly made for me.”
He bottomed out, then held still. Let me adjust to the fullness. To the invasion. His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling. The table creaked beneath us, a warning and a promise. I could feel every inch of him inside me, could feel my body stretching to accommodate him.
“Move,” I whispered. Begged.
He pulled back until just the tip remained, then thrust forward hard. Deep. Claiming. Staking his territory.
I cried out. My nails dug into his shoulders, probably drawing blood.
He set a brutal pace, fucking me with purpose and possession.
Each thrust hit that spot inside me that made me see stars.
The table rocked beneath us. The legs scraped against the floor.
I could hear dishes rattling in the cabinets, could hear the sound of our bodies coming together wet and obscene and perfect. The slap of skin on skin.
“This is what you needed,” he growled. “Needed me to fuck you. Needed me to claim you. Needed to know you belong to someone. That you’re not alone anymore.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes. Brock. Please.”
“Please what, baby? Tell me what you need.”
“Harder. Fuck me harder.”
He obliged. His hips snapped forward with bruising force.
I’d feel this tomorrow—the ache between my legs, the soreness in my hips.
And I wanted it. Wanted the reminder. The table groaned as it shifted.
One leg lifted slightly off the floor. I didn’t care if it broke, didn’t care if the whole fucking thing collapsed beneath us.
All I cared about was him. This. The way he filled me.
The way he looked at me like I was something precious and profane all at once.
I felt my orgasm building again, coiling tight in my belly. Tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. My inner walls clenched around him, trying to hold him, desperate to keep him close.
“That’s it,” he praised. “Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you love being fucked. Show me how much you love my cock inside you.”
“I’m close,” I warned, my voice barely recognizable.
“Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
His hand slid between us, found my clit, and rubbed tight circles.
The rough pad of his finger against that sensitive bundle of nerves was all it took.
I came with a scream, my body convulsing around him, milking him, clenching rhythmically.
The table shook. My vision went white. I couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think. Could only feel wave after wave of pleasure drowning me.
He followed me over, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me with his release in hot spurts deep inside. He buried his face in my neck and bit down on the junction of my shoulder, marking me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. The pain heightened the pleasure and made me cry out again.
We stayed connected, breathing hard, hearts racing. His weight pressing me into the table. The table settled beneath us with a final creak, a sigh of relief that it had survived.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheek. The gesture was surprisingly tender after the brutality of what we’d just done.
“You okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes.
“Yeah.” More than okay. Better than I’d been in years.
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. Soft. Tender. A stark contrast to the brutal way he’d just fucked me. “Because I plan to fuck you again in about ten minutes.”
I laughed. The sound surprised me, bubbling up from somewhere deep. When was the last time I’d laughed after sex? When was the last time sex had felt like this? Like connection instead of transaction; intimacy instead of obligation?
“I’m serious,” he continued. “I’ve got a couple of hours before your mom wakes up. I plan to use every fucking minute.”
His cock was already hardening again inside me, proof he meant what he said. I could feel it growing, filling me again.
I looked up at this dangerous man who’d claimed me, who’d made me his, who looked at me like I was something worth protecting instead of something to be controlled, who saw me as a person instead of a possession.
“Then what are you waiting for?” I challenged.
His eyes darkened. That predatory smile returned. The one that made heat pool in my belly, the one that made me feel alive.
“Absolutely nothing.”
He pulled out of me slowly. The loss made me whimper.
Made me feel empty. Then he grabbed my hips and flipped me over.
Bent me over the table. My cheek pressed against the cool wood, the contrast in temperature making me shiver.
My ass was in the air. Exposed and vulnerable and exactly where he wanted me.
His hand came down on my ass. A sharp crack that echoed in the kitchen, making me gasp. The sting spread across my skin. Then he was pushing inside me again. Deeper this time. The angle was different. More intense. He bottomed out and I felt it in my stomach.
And he made good on his promise. He fucked me hard and fast. One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise.
Pulling me back to meet his thrusts. The table scraped across the floor.
My breasts pressed against the wood, my nipples hard against the cool surface.
The sound of our bodies coming together filled the kitchen, punctuated by my cries and his grunts.
He leaned over me. His chest pressed against my back. His breath was hot against my ear as he murmured, “You’re mine now. You understand that? Mine.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yours.”
And I meant it.