Chapter 8 #3
I was still floating somewhere in the stratosphere when he finally lifted his head.
He wiped his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with a primal satisfaction that should have scared me.
Instead, it sent a fresh, lazy wave of heat through my spent limbs.
He moved with that same unnerving deliberateness, standing and shedding his clothes with a few economical motions.
The shirt first, revealing a lean, sculpted chest that was dusted with dark hair I wanted to run my fingers through.
Then the slacks, and I got my first real look at him.
My breath hitched. He was magnificent. All hard lines and confident muscle, but it was the thick, heavy cock jutting out from a nest of dark curls that made my mouth go dry.
And there, just below the head, was the source of that cool metal surprise—a sleek, silver barbell transversing the underside.
A frenum piercing. My earlier jolt of curiosity returned tenfold, a sudden, sharp ache to touch it, to taste it, to feel the unique texture of it against my tongue.
I pushed myself up on my elbows, reaching for him, but he caught my wrist. His grip was firm but not bruising.
“Later,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through me.
The single word was a promise and a command all at once.
He released me, tore open a foil packet with his teeth, and rolled the condom on with a practiced efficiency that was somehow even sexier than fumbling would have been.
And then he was on me. No more caging, no more teasing.
He pinned my wrists above my head with one of his, his other hand guiding his cock to my entrance.
He didn’t ask for permission this time. He didn’t need to.
He drove into me in one smooth, powerful stroke that stole the air from my lungs all over again.
The feel of him was overwhelming. The sheer, unapologetic stretch of him filling me completely.
And then, as he began to move, the drag of that silver barbell against my inner walls was a whole new kind of torment.
A delicious, electric friction that had me seeing stars all over again.
It was a fierce, furious coupling, exactly as I’d known it would be. He wasn’t making love to me.
He was fucking me. Claiming me. Every thrust was a punctuation mark in a story I was just beginning to understand.
My hands, freed from his grip, scrabbled for purchase, digging into the hard muscle of his back, then sliding down to clutch the tight, flexing curve of his ass.
I wanted to explore, to memorize every inch of him, but the fever pitch of it all was making me crazy, reducing me to instinct and sensation.
He angled his hips, hitting a spot inside me that made me cry out, a sharp, broken sound.
He did it again, and again, a relentless, punishing rhythm that robbed me of thought and breath.
The world shrank to this. The slap of skin on skin, his harsh breathing in my ear, the exquisite pressure building deep inside me, and the undeniable, intoxicating truth of the silver bar that was taking me apart piece by piece.
My nails raked down his spine and he hissed, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he powered forward, his teeth sinking into the curve of my shoulder.
The sharp sting of pain was the final push I needed.
I shattered again, my orgasm a violent, convulsive thing that ripped through me with the force of a tidal wave.
He followed me over the edge with a guttural groan, his body stiffening as he poured himself into me, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us gasping for air in the sudden, ringing silence of the room.
Tonight…
I shuddered, the aftershocks still rippling through me as I lay boneless on the bed.
My eyes fluttered open, and I watched him rise.
There was only a single lamp on in the room, casting a warm, honeyed glow that made everything feel intimate and secret.
His face was slick with my release, and he didn't wipe it away.
Instead, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, deliberate motion that was utterly possessive.
It wasn't just an act of cleaning; it was a performance, a silent declaration that he was savoring every drop.
And just like that, he was seducing me all over again, a slow burn starting deep in my belly.
My gaze drifted over him, taking in the whole picture.
His skin was sun-kissed, a warm golden brown that spoke of days outdoors, but it was the subtle shift in tone right around his hips that caught my eye, the faint lines of where a swimsuit might sit.
The image of him on a beach, water clinging to that same lean, muscled body, sent a fresh, sharp bolt of lust straight through me.
His dark hair was a mess from my fingers, his chocolate brown eyes were fixed on me, dark and intense. This was a body built for more than sterile gym repetitions; it was a body for moving, for working, for fucking. And his tongue, fuck, his tongue was a masterpiece of artistry.
My eyes dipped lower, past the flat planes of his stomach to his cock.
It was a hard, jutting length, slightly curved, the thick mushroom head so flushed with blood it looked almost painful.
And there, glinting in the soft light, was the barbell in his frenum, a silent, wicked promise of the pleasure to come.
He reached for the foil packet on the nightstand, his movements economical and sure.
He began to roll the condom on, and that small, practical act almost made me weep.
In the middle of this raw, sweeping passion, he remembered.
He took the time. It was a small thing, but it was everything.
He moved over me, bracing his hands on either side of my head. "You want me?" he murmured, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrated through my chest.
I didn't answer with words. I licked my lips, a slow, deliberate sweep, and spread my thighs wider in invitation. My hand slid down my stomach, and I dragged a finger through my soaking wet folds, gathering the slickness there before holding his gaze.
"You have no idea how much..."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Should I make you tell me how much?"
Another shudder wracked my body, this one pure anticipation. "You could," I agreed, my voice a breathy whisper. "But I'm a big fan of show, don't tell."
His laughter was rich and deep, a masculine rumble that was intoxicating. "How hard do you want it, Flash?" His voice softened on the nickname, and my inner muscles clenched tight. I knew what he was capable of. I knew exactly what I wanted.
"Hard," I whispered, the word a plea. "I want you so hard that I'll feel you for days."
"Oh, after I'm done with you tonight, you will feel me for days." It wasn't a boast; it was a promise, dark and binding.
And then there were no more words.
His mouth fused with mine, a hungry, possessive kiss that swallowed any sound I might have made.
In the same moment, he thrust into me. It was rough, swift, and deep, a single, powerful stroke that stole the air from my lungs and filled me completely.
He didn't give me time to adjust, to process.
He set a punishing, relentless rhythm, each thrust a hard, deep impact that sent shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through me.
The strokes threatened to make me scream all over again, but his mouth was on mine, sucking the breath from my body, claiming every gasp and moan.
He filled me over and over, a relentless, driving force that pushed me higher and higher.
This time, there was no teasing, no cruel edging.
He was giving me exactly what I asked for, and the pleasure was immediate, overwhelming.
The first orgasm crashed into me without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that had me clawing at his back.
Before I could even come down from it, he was already pushing me toward a second, his hips grinding, the angle of his thrusts changing to hit that perfect, devastating spot inside me.
The second one was deeper, a rolling tide of ecstasy that left me trembling and mindless.
And on the third, as my body convulsed around him, I felt him tense.
A low, guttural groan was torn from his throat, and he followed me over, his own release pulsing into me as he buried himself to the hilt.
We shattered together, a tangled, sweating mess of limbs and ragged breaths, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of sated exhaustion.
Two years earlier…
He collapsed against me, his weight a welcome anchor in the sea of sensation I was still drowning in.
For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths, the frantic thrum of my own heart in my ears, and the distant hum of the dorm refrigerator.
The world slowly came back into focus. The slightly scratchy texture of my dorm comforter against my back, the cooling sweat on our skin, the scent of sex and garlic and pizza hanging in the air.
He lifted his head, his dark hair damp and falling over his forehead.
His eyes, which had been so fierce and predatory moments before, were now soft.
Dazed. He looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his lips.
It wasn’t the sharp, dangerous grin from before.
This one was genuine. A little goofy. It utterly delighted me.
My own lips curved into a smile I couldn’t suppress. My body felt like it had been wrung out and put back together wrong, but in the best possible way. I felt utterly, ridiculously happy. My brain, finally rebooting, decided to offer up the first coherent thought it could muster.
I tilted my head back, looking up at him, and whispered, my voice raspy and wrecked, “So… what happens if I ask for Chinese instead of pizza?”
His smile faltered for a half-second, his brow furrowing in confusion.
Then his eyes cleared, and a low, deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, a vibration I felt everywhere we were still connected.
The sound was warm and real and so unexpectedly perfect that a laugh bubbled up out of my own chest.
He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at me properly.
“Chinese?” he murmured, his thumb stroking a line along my jaw.
“Rachel, if you’d asked for Chinese, I would have had to fight a guy over General Tso’s chicken.
” He leaned down and kissed me, a soft, lingering press of his lips that was nothing like the frantic ones from before.
It was a kiss that said hello. “And I probably would have won,” he added against my mouth.
“But I would’ve been way too exhausted for this afterward. ”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
Tonight…
We shattered together, a tangled, sweating mess of limbs and ragged breaths, collapsing onto the bed in a heap of sated exhaustion.
He was heavy on top of me, a solid, grounding weight that I didn’t want to move.
I could feel his heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that matched my own.
For a long time, we just lay there, letting the world come back into focus one labored breath at a time.
Eventually, he stirred, propping himself up on his elbows.
He looked down at me, his dark hair a complete mess, his lips swollen from my kisses.
A slow, lazy smile touched his mouth, and he reached out, gently tucking a strand of sweat-damp hair behind my ear.
“So,” he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rasp. “Was that hard enough for you?”
A breathless laugh escaped me. I felt wrecked. Gloriously, thoroughly, beautifully wrecked. “I think,” I managed, my own voice hoarse, “you might have overshot the mark on ‘for days.’ Try ‘for a week.’ Maybe two.”
He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that I felt in my bones.
He dipped his head and kissed the corner of my mouth, then my jaw, a series of soft, almost reverent presses.
“Good.” He shifted, carefully withdrawing from me.
The loss of his warmth and weight was immediate and startling.
He dealt with the condom in the bathroom, and I took the moment to just…
breathe. My body ached in the most delicious way, a deep, satisfying soreness that was a testament to his promise fulfilled.
When he came back, he didn’t immediately climb back into bed.
He stood there for a second, just looking at me, naked and unselfconscious in the lamplight.
His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical touch, tracing the lines of my body, the marks on my skin that his mouth and hands had left.
It wasn’t just lust in his eyes; it was something else.
Something deeper. Something that looked a hell of a lot like history.
And just like that, the lighthearted moment shifted.
The air grew thick, charged with all the times we’d been here before, in different rooms, in different cities, always with this same fiery, unspoken understanding between us.
All the near misses and the deliberate pull-backs, the way I’d always run the morning after, leaving nothing but a scent on his pillows and an ache in my chest. The weight of it settled in my chest, heavy and profound.
He must have felt it too, because his smile faded, replaced by that same intense, searching look. He moved back to the bed, sitting on the edge and taking my hand. His thumb stroked over my knuckles, a slow, rhythmic motion that was both comforting and electrifying.
“Rachel,” he said, his voice quiet now, serious. “This has never been a one-time thing.”
My breath hitched. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A declaration that cut through every excuse I’d ever made.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a low, possessive whisper that sent a fresh shiver down my spine. “You can run all you want,” he murmured, the words a dark, velvet promise against my skin. “But I will always chase.”
He pulled back just enough to catch my eye, and the look in his, was all-consuming. It held every time he’d let me go, and every time he’d waited for me to come back. “And tonight,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, “is just getting started.”
I couldn't resist or deny my reaction. Not when the challenge in his declaration thrilled me.