Chapter 9 #3
Cups my breast through the robe.
His thumb brushes over my nipple and it hardens immediately, betraying me.
Proving his point without words.
"Your body doesn't lie, Eden. Even when your mouth does. Even when you're trying so hard to convince yourself that you don't want this."
"Stop."
"Do you really want me to stop? Or do you want me to make you feel what you felt before? Make you come apart like you did that night? Make you remember that your pleasure belongs to me?"
I don't answer.
Because the truth is too complicated, too twisted, too fucked up to put into words.
I don't want this. Don't want to want this.
But my body does.
My body remembers and craves and needs in ways that have nothing to do with logic or self-preservation or any of the things that should matter.
"I'm going to touch you now," he says, and it's not a request. "And you're going to let me. Because you need this. Because your body has been craving this since the moment you ran. Because deep down, in a place you won't admit even to yourself, you know you're mine."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. And tonight, I'm going to prove it to both of us."
His mouth comes down on mine.
I try to pull away. Try to resist. Try to maintain some last shred of defiance.
But his hand is in my hair, holding me in place with firm pressure.
And his kiss is demanding, consuming, overwhelming every thought except the sensation of his lips on mine.
And God help me, my body responds.
My mouth opens under his without permission from my brain.
My hands grip his shoulders for balance instead of pushing him away like they should.
I kiss him back.
Hate myself for it even as I'm doing it.
But I kiss him back anyway because my body doesn't care about should or shouldn't.
It just wants.
When he finally pulls away, we're both breathing hard.
His eyes are dark with desire.
Mine probably mirror his.
"See?" he says, voice rough. "Your body knows who it belongs to even if your mind won't admit it yet."
He stands, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing.
Vaughn carries me to the bed even though I could walk.
He lays me down on sheets that smell like him.
Stands over me, looking down with an intensity that makes my skin heat, my body completely exposed to his gaze.
"Vaughn, please—"
"Please what? Please stop? Or please continue? Please give you what your body is begging for?"
I don't answer because I don't know which one I mean.
"That's what I thought."
He reaches for his shirt and unbuttons it with deliberate slowness.
I should close my eyes. Should look away. Should refuse to participate in whatever this is.
I don't.
I watch as he strips off his shirt, revealing a body I've never seen before.
Lean muscle without being bulky.
Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist.
A chest and stomach that show he takes care of himself—no gym obsession, just natural fitness maintained with discipline.
There's a scar on his left side, near his ribs.
It looks old and I can’t help but wonder how he got it.
The thought makes me angry at myself.
I shouldn't be curious about his scars, his history, or anything about him beyond how to escape.
But I am.
He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
The thought makes me angrier.
He shouldn't be beautiful.
Shouldn't make me want to look, to touch, to trace those muscles with my fingers.
He unbuckles his belt.
The sound of the leather sliding through the loops makes my breath catch.
He unzips his jeans with that same deliberate slowness.
Pushing them down along with his boxer briefs in one smooth motion.
And then he's naked.
Completely naked in front of me.
And aroused.
Very, very aroused.
I've never seen a man naked before.
Never seen—that.
It's bigger than I expected.
Harder. Thicker.
Fear spikes through me, sharp and cold.
He's going to—
"I'm not going to fuck you," he says, reading my expression with that uncanny ability he has. "Not tonight. Not until you ask me to. Not until you beg me for it."
"I'll never ask. Never beg."
"We'll see about that too."
He climbs onto the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. Settles beside me, all that bare skin just inches away.
I try to sit up. He pushes me back down, gentle but firm. Undeniable.
"Stay."
"Vaughn—"
"I'm going to touch you now. Make you come. Make you remember that your pleasure belongs to me. That your body responds to me in ways you can't control. That running is pointless because you'll always come back to this."
"No—"
"Yes."
His hand slides over my body, warm against my ribs.
Cups my breast with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch.
Squeezes gently, testing the weight of it in his palm.
I gasp despite myself.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "So fucking perfect. Your body was made for this, Eden. Made to feel pleasure. Made to respond to me."
His thumb circles my nipple.
Slow. Teasing.
Building sensation with patient precision.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to keep from making a sound.
Trying not to give him the satisfaction.
"Don't hold back," he says, noticing immediately. "I want to hear you. I want to know how good this feels. I want every sound, every gasp, every moan. Don't you dare hold back from me."
"It doesn't feel good—"
"Liar."
His mouth replaces his hand on my breast.
Hot and wet and—
Oh God.
The sensation shoots straight through me like electricity.
Makes my back arch off the bed.
Makes a sound escape my throat that I can't control, can't suppress, can't take back.
"There it is," he says against my skin. "There's the truth. There's what your body wants even when you won't admit it."
He moves to the other breast.
Lavishes the same attention, sucking and licking and using his teeth just enough to make me gasp, to make my hands fist in the sheets.
My hands are in his hair suddenly.
When did that happen?
When did I stop trying to push him away and start pulling him closer?
When did resistance become participation?
"Good girl," he murmurs against my skin. "Let yourself feel it. Let yourself want it. Stop fighting what your body already knows."
His hand slides lower.
Over my stomach, making the muscles there jump.
Over my hip, his touch possessive. Between my thighs.
I try to close my legs, try to deny him access.
He forces them open with firm pressure. "No. You don't get to hide from this. You don't get to pretend you don't want it when your body is already telling me the truth."
His fingers find me.
Find the proof that my body wants what my mind refuses to accept.
Find the wetness that betrays every word of protest I've spoken.
"So wet already," he says, wonder and satisfaction in his voice. "Your body knows what it needs even when you won't admit it. Even when you're trying so hard to convince yourself that you hate this."
He circles slowly with one finger.
Teasing. Building.
Not giving me what I need but showing me what he could give if I just admitted I wanted it.
The sensation is different from the vibrator.
More direct. More intense. More personal.
More overwhelming.
"Vaughn—"
"I know. You're close already, aren't you? Your body remembers. Craves this. Needs it like oxygen."
"Please—"
"Please what? Use your words, Eden. Tell me what you want."
I can't. Can't say the words. Can't admit what I'm craving.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he says, his finger still circling, building pressure that's making my hips move against my will. "Say the word right now and this ends. I'll leave you alone. Let you go back to not knowing, not feeling, not understanding what your body can do."
I open my mouth.
The word doesn't come.
Because I don't want him to stop.
Don't want this to end.
Don't want to go back to the frustration of trying and failing to give myself what only he can provide.
"That's what I thought."
He slides one finger inside me, slow and careful.
I cry out.
The sensation is foreign, invasive, too much—a fullness I've never felt before.
"Relax," he says, his voice soothing despite what he's doing. "Let your body adjust. You're so tight. So perfect. Just breathe through it."
He moves slowly, carefully, letting me get used to the intrusion.
Then adds another finger, stretching me, making me gasp at the burn and the pressure and the overwhelming sensation of being filled.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs. "Taking my fingers so perfectly. When you're ready, when you finally beg me to fuck you, it's going to feel even better than this. You're going to be so full of me you won't be able to think about anything else."
The image makes heat flood through me.
Makes me clench around his fingers involuntarily.
"You like that idea," he observes. "Your body does, anyway. Likes the thought of me inside you. Filling you. Making you mine in every possible way."
His thumb finds that spot.
The one the vibrator touched.
The one with eight thousand nerve endings designed solely for pleasure.
Circles it while his fingers move inside me, creating a dual sensation that makes my brain short-circuit.
I can't think.
Can't breathe.
Can't do anything except feel.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let go. Give me what's mine. Come for me, Eden."
The pressure builds faster than before.
More intense.
The combination of his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit creating sensations I couldn't recreate alone.
Proving his point without words.
I'm going to—
I can't—
It's too much—
"Come. Now."
And I do.
My body obeys him even when my mind is still trying to resist.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves that seem endless, stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything except the pleasure radiating from where his hand is still moving.
I arch off the bed, back bowing, a cry tearing from my throat that I can't suppress.
Making sounds I don't recognize as my own.
Giving him exactly what he wanted.
Proving I'm his.
He doesn't stop.