Chapter 50
fifty
Elijah
I can’t breathe.
That’s the first thing I register. Not the room. Not the silence. Not even the fact that she’s on her knees in front of me.
Just the sharp, suffocating awareness that something inside my chest has locked tight enough that it’s cutting off air.
She shouldn’t be there. She should never have to be there. Not like this. Not asking. Not begging.
My wife does not beg for me.
My wife has never had to ask me for anything.
I’ve always taken. I’ve always known what she needed before she said it. I’ve always given.
And now...
She’s kneeling in front of me.
Because I pushed her there.
The realization hits like a blade straight through my ribs.
I did this.
I took something that belonged to us, something sacred, something instinctive, something that used to exist without hesitation, and I strangled it with my own fear until she had no choice but to reach for it herself.
My jaw tightens so hard it aches.
I can’t move.
I don’t trust myself to.
Because all I can see, all I can fucking see, is her on that floor.
Still.
Gone.
And every instinct I have is screaming at me that if I touch her the wrong way, if I lose control for even a second, I will put her back there.
I will be the one who breaks her.
And I will not survive that.
“You told me once…”
Her voice cuts through everything.
Soft. Steady. Devastating.
“That I only ever kneel for you.”
My chest tightens harder. Because I did say that. I said it like a promise. Like a claim. Like something unshakable. And now she’s using it to reach me. To pull me back.
“I’m kneeling for you.”
My hands flex at my sides.
I should stop this. I should pull her up. I should end this before it goes any further, before I lose whatever control I’ve been holding onto by my teeth for days.
But I don’t move. I can’t.
Because the sight of her like this, for me, offering herself to me like this, is tearing something open in me that I don’t know how to contain.
“I’m yours, Elijah.”
Fuck.
My throat burns.
“You claimed me… remember?”
I remember everything. Every time I put my hands on her. Every time I took her apart and built her back up again. Every time she looked at me like I was something she chose.
Something she wanted.
Something she needed.
And now she’s looking at me like that again, but this time there’s something else in it.
Desperation.
Need.
A crack in her that I put there.
“I’m here.”
My chest stutters.
“Take me.”
The words land. And something in me splits. Because I want to. God, I want to. Every part of my body is already responding, already moving toward her, already imagining the weight of her under me, the sound she makes when I give her exactly what she’s asking for.
But my feet stay planted. My hands stay at my sides. Because the other voice is louder. The one that remembers. The one that sees her broken. The one that refuses to risk it.
“I can’t,” I force out, even though it feels like it’s tearing my throat open to say it.
Her face changes. Not dramatically. Not loudly. But enough. Enough that I feel it. And then she says it again.
“Take me.”
Softer this time. More fragile.
And that, that’s what fucking kills me.
Because she shouldn’t have to say it twice.
She shouldn’t have to say it at all. And I did that. I made her ask. I made her feel like she has to convince me to want her.
My vision blurs for half a second with the force of it.
And then, she moves. Her hands lift. Slow. Deliberate. And when they touch me, when her palms slide up my thighs, everything inside me snaps.
It’s not gradual. It’s not controlled. It’s not something I can think through or reason with.
It’s instinct.
Raw.
Immediate.
Violent in the way it tears through every restraint I’ve been holding in place. Because it’s her. Because it’s my wife touching me like she needs me.
Because I can feel the heat of her hands through the fabric, the intent in the way she moves, the trust in the fact that she’s still reaching for me even after everything I’ve done to hold her at a distance.
And I can’t hold back anymore.
I drop.
My knees hit the floor in front of her without me even realizing I’ve moved.
My hands come up to her face, gripping her like I need to anchor myself to something real, something alive, something mine, and then my mouth is on hers.
There is nothing gentle about it.
Nothing careful.
Nothing restrained.
It’s hunger.
It’s need.
It’s everything I’ve been forcing down clawing its way back to the surface all at once. I kiss her like I’ve been starved. Like I’ve been denied. Like I’m trying to prove something to both of us at the same time.
Her.
Me.
That she’s still here.
That I still want her.
That nothing, nothing, has taken this from us.
She responds immediately.
Of course she does.
She always does.
Her hands come up, gripping me, pulling me closer, her body leaning into mine like she’s been waiting for this, like she’s been holding her breath for days and I’ve just finally given her air.
The sound she makes, soft, broken, needing, goes straight through me. And I lose whatever was left of control. My hand moves, over her throat.
I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to feel the fear try to claw its way back in, and then I close my hand gently around her neck.
Not tight.
Not forcing.
Just holding.
And the way she reacts, the way her breath catches, the way her body leans into it instead of pulling away, the way her mouth opens against mine like she’s been waiting for this exact touch, that’s it.
That’s the moment everything breaks.
Because she’s not fragile.
She’s not breaking.
She’s responding.
She’s mine.
And she wants me.
The kiss is brutal in its need.
I devour her mouth like a man who’s been drowning and she’s the first breath of air in days.
My tongue slides deep, claiming every inch, tasting the soft, desperate sounds she makes as she melts into me right there on the lounge-room floor.
My hand stays wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just owning the wild flutter of her pulse under my palm, reminding me she’s alive, she’s here, she’s mine.
I pull back only enough to growl against her lips, voice low and raw. “You want me to take you, wife?”
“Yes,” she breathes, no hesitation, eyes locked on mine.
That single word shatters the last of my restraint.
I surge forward, hands gripping her hips as I lift her off the floor.
She’s still fully dressed, shirt rumpled, pants still on, and the feel of fabric between us only sharpens the hunger.
She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively, arms around my neck, and I carry her through the apartment with long, purposeful strides, past the couch, down the short hallway, straight into the bedroom.
The door kicks shut behind us with my heel.
I lower her onto the bed with controlled force, her back hitting the mattress hard enough to make her gasp.
I climb over her immediately, caging her in, still fully clothed while she lies beneath me in everything she’s wearing.
For a long moment I just look at her, flushed cheeks, parted lips, the faint rise and fall of her chest under her shirt.
Then I start stripping her with firm, demanding hands.
I grip the hem of her shirt and yank it up and off in one rough pull, tossing it aside.
My palms slide over her bare skin, possessive and rough, cupping her breasts and squeezing just hard enough to make her arch and moan.
I pinch her nipples between thumb and forefinger, rolling them firmly until they tighten into hard peaks and she whimpers.
My mouth follows, teeth grazing her throat, sucking marks into the skin just below her ear until she gasps, then lower, biting down on the curve of her shoulder hard enough to sting before soothing it with my tongue.
I don’t linger softly.
I move with purpose, with the edge of the hunger I’ve been choking back for days.
When I reach the bandage on her side I freeze for half a second, jaw clenching at the sight of the gauze. Fear and rage flash hot through me. My hand hovers, trembling with the urge to rip it away or punish the world for putting it there.
She catches my wrist, fingers tight.
“I won’t break, Elijah,” she whispers, voice steady even as her body trembles beneath me. “I’m here. I’m alive. I need all of you. Don’t hold back. Claim me.”
The words snap something inside me.
I shove her pants and underwear down her legs in one harsh tug, yanking them off and throwing them to the floor, leaving her completely bare while I’m still half-dressed.
I rip my own shirt over my head and shove my pants down just enough to free myself, thick, heavy, already leaking with raw need.
I settle between her spread thighs, grip her hips hard enough to bruise, and drag the swollen head of my cock through her slick folds, coating myself in her wetness, teasing her entrance until she’s rocking up against me with desperate little sounds.
Then I push in.
One deep, powerful thrust buries me to the hilt, stretching her open around my thickness.
The groan that tears from my throat is guttural.
She’s tight and hot and mine, and the feel of her fluttering and clenching around me nearly undoes me.
I stay buried for one heartbeat, letting her feel every inch, then I start to move.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
My hips snap forward again and again, driving into her with every ounce of the fear and desperation I’ve been swallowing.
The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room.
One hand braces beside her head, fingers digging into the sheets, the other slides under her ass, lifting her hips so I can drive even deeper, grinding the base of my cock against her clit with every brutal thrust. I keep the angle perfect, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out and tighten around me.
I lean down and bite her shoulder again, hard enough to leave a dark mark, never enough to truly hurt, then soothe it with my tongue while I keep fucking her in steady, punishing strokes.
My free hand finds her breast, squeezing hard, pinching her nipple until she gasps and clenches around my cock like a vice.
“Mine,” I growl against her ear, voice rough and dark. “You’re mine. Alive. Here. My wife. Still so fucking perfect for me, with my baby inside you.”
The words come out low, possessive, laced with that deep, primal need to claim what’s already growing in her. I fuck her harder at the thought, hips slamming forward, the subtle press of her belly against my abs with every thrust reminding me exactly what she’s carrying.
She cries out, nails raking down my back, legs locking tight around my waist. “Elijah, yes! Harder!”
I give it to her. Faster. Deeper. My hand slides between us to rub firm, relentless circles over her clit while I drive into her, pushing her toward the edge without mercy.
When she comes, it’s violent and beautiful. Her walls clamp down hard around my cock, rippling and squeezing as she sobs my name, back bowing off the bed. I don’t slow. I fuck her through it, hips never faltering, drawing every last pulse from her until she’s shaking and gasping.
Only then do I let myself go.
With a guttural roar I bury myself as deep as I can and come hard, thick, hot pulses flooding her, claiming her from the inside out while I grind against her, making sure every drop stays deep inside her.
My body shudders with the force of it, the last of the fear and denial finally draining away as I empty myself inside her.
The intensity ebbs as the last spasms fade.
I roll us so she’s tucked against my chest, my arms wrapping around her like iron bands.
I press firm kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, still possessive, still hungry, but now laced with something raw and reverent.
My hand strokes down her back in slow, grounding sweeps before settling over the small, warm swell of her stomach, palm pressing lightly like I can protect what’s growing there.
“My angel,” I murmur, voice hoarse and thick. “My beautiful angel. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. Never.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. One slips free, tracking down my cheek as I hold her tighter, burying my face in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t protect you. Sorry I made you beg for my love when you should never have had to ask. I was so scared… I won’t do that again. Never again. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Always.”
She curls into me, and I keep stroking her hair, my fingers tracing firm, possessive patterns over her skin, breathing her in while the bedroom light softens around us.
The fear is still there, buried deep, but for the first time since I almost lost her, it doesn’t own me.
She does.
And I will spend every day proving it.