Chapter 43 #2
He takes his time. Agonizing, deliberate time.
His lips move across the inside of my thighs instead, soft and unhurried, pressing kisses into skin that has only ever known the geography of fear.
He breathes hot air over my center, close enough that I feel the warmth of each exhale against wet heat, then draws back again to press his mouth against my thigh.
He alternates like this—lips on sensitive skin, warm breath ghosting where I need him most, his tongue tracing my outer lips before retreating—building something inside me that's half pleasure and half madness, an unbearable anticipation that climbs and climbs without resolution.
"Please," I beg, the word fracturing into a whimper I don't have the pride left to swallow.
He rewards me immediately, thrusting his tongue inside me, and my back bows off the bed like a pulled bowstring.
"Oh god—"
"Is that what you want, Peaches?" His voice is muffled against me, rough and warm.
My head shakes of its own accord, some desperate, wordless communication. "I need you to fuck me." The words come out without shame, without calculation. Raw truth.
He replaces his tongue with two fingers, filling me slowly, stretching me with such deliberate patience I want to sob.
"Not yet," he says, beginning a steady, unhurried rhythm. "First I want to taste you. I want you to come on my face." A pause, fingers curling just slightly, hitting a spot that makes my thighs tremble. "Then I'll fuck you."
His mouth finds my clit at the same moment his fingers find their rhythm, working in devastating concert—pressure and depth and the perfect friction of both at once.
The combination unravels something in my chest alongside everything lower.
It's too much and not nearly enough and exactly what I've been starving for.
"Oh god, I'm so close—"
He sucks, and I shatter. His name breaks apart in my throat, syllables dissolving into sound as the orgasm rolls through me in waves that drown out every ugly thought I've ever had about myself.
There's no room left for shame, for the careful monitoring of my own reactions, for wondering how I look or sound.
There's only this—pleasure so clean and total it feels almost like grieving, like my body is mourning all the years it went without being touched like this.
When I come back to myself, my chest is heaving and my fingers are still knotted in his hair. He rises to his feet and removes the rest of his clothes without ceremony, and then he's back, positioned between my thighs, and I open for him like breathing—natural, inevitable, necessary.
He leans down and kisses me deeply, and I taste myself on his tongue, salt and want and something I can only call surrender.
I reach between our bodies without thinking, finding him hard and wanting, lining him up.
But he holds himself utterly still despite the fine tremor running through his arms. The restraint costs him—I can feel it.
"Please, Kade," I breathe against his mouth.
"Tell me again," he murmurs, and I know exactly what he's asking for.
I press my lips to his jaw, the curve of his neck, moving upward slowly, deliberately.
"I"—a kiss pressed to warm skin—"love"—a kiss and the slow drag of my tongue—"you"—a kiss—"Kade".
Each word laid against his pulse like something sacred.
Then I bite down where his neck meets his shoulder, harder than I intended.
The sound that tears out of him is animal and undone, and then he drives into me in one deep thrust that steals every thought from my head.
"I love you, Peaches." Desperate. Pained. Like the words are something he's been holding carefully for a long time.
Our mouths find each other again and we breathe through every slow, deep thrust, kissing between inhales, sharing the same air.
He pulls my leg up over his arm and I cry out softly at the shift in angle—deeper now, impossibly deeper, reaching places only he can.
Behind my closed eyes, light fractures and scatters like something breaking open, but beautifully, the way dawn looks through a cracked window.
The orgasm builds differently this time. Not the sharp electric urgency of before but something wider, spreading outward from my core through every nerve ending, rolling and inevitable.
"Come for me Peaches," he says against my mouth, voice rough and wrecked. "So I can paint your insides with my cum and put a baby in you."
Something in those words bypasses every rational thought entirely.
The idea of carrying his child—of being that irrevocably, undeniably his—hits me somewhere so deep and primal that it feels less like desire and more like recognition.
Like my body understanding something my mind hasn't caught up to yet.
And the thought of him filling me, claiming me in the most ancient and irreversible way—
I come apart around him, crying out in broken syllables, his name and God's name tangled together in something that sounds uncomfortably like prayer.
His rhythm stutters shortly after, the measured control he's maintained fracturing at last. His thrusts grow harder, less precise, chasing his own undoing, and then he spills into me with a sound that reverberates off the bedroom walls—raw and low and completely unguarded.
His whole body goes taut above me before finally, slowly, going soft.
We stay tangled together in the aftermath, neither of us moving, neither of us willing to let the world back in just yet. His forehead drops to mine and I can feel his heartbeat beneath my palm—racing still, gradually steadying. Our breath mingles in the narrow space between our mouths.
This is reckless. Catastrophically, irreversibly reckless. I know it the same way I know my own name, the same way I know Daniel will come home eventually, the same way I know this can only end badly for everyone involved.
But lying here beneath Kade's weight, with his breath warming my face and the evidence of his love still inside me, I find I cannot locate a single piece of myself that regrets it.