Chapter 10 #2
I park behind the bike and sit for a moment, gathering my courage. This is a choice. A clear-headed, deliberate choice, made not out of fear or desperation but out of want. Pure, uncomplicated want.
I get out of the car and walk to the door.
Will opens it before I can knock, like he sensed me coming. He's wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, his feet bare, his hair slightly damp from a recent shower. His expression shifts when he sees me—surprise, then concern, then heat that makes my pulse quicken.
"Is everything okay?"
I don't answer. I step past him into the house, not waiting for an invitation, and turn to face him as he closes the door behind us.
"I'm ready."
He goes still, the way he does when he's being careful. "Ready for what?"
"For this. For us." I move toward him, closing the distance between us. "I talked to a lawyer today. I told Cole everything. I'm not running from anything tonight, Will. I'm running toward something."
I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat of his body. His eyes search my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for any sign that I'm not as sure as I sound.
"You're certain."
"Yes."
He cups my face in his hands, the same way he did in the office, and tilts my head up to meet his eyes. "We need a word. Something you can say if anything feels wrong."
"Red." It comes out without hesitation. "I want to use red."
"Red it is. You say it, everything stops. No questions, no pushing." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones. "And I need to ask—are you on birth control?"
"IUD. And I'm clean. I got tested after I left Craig."
"I'm clean too. Tested regularly." His eyes hold mine. "I have condoms if you want—"
"No." I cover his hands with mine. "I want to feel you."
Heat flares in his eyes—heat and want and something deeper. He nods once, jaw tight.
Whatever he finds in my face makes his breath catch. His expression cracks open, raw and hungry, and then his mouth is on mine.
This kiss is nothing like the one in his office.
That was restrained, careful, a question.
This is an answer. His tongue strokes against mine, demanding and sure, and I open for him without thinking.
His hands slide from my face to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he pulls me against him until I can feel every inch of his body pressed to mine—the hard planes of his chest, the rigid length of him against my stomach.
A sound escapes me, something between a moan and a whimper, and he swallows it. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, exposing my throat. His mouth drags down my jaw, my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and my knees nearly buckle.
"I've got you." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "Let go."
So I do. My body goes pliant in his arms, and there's no shame in it. No fear. Just want, pure and uncomplicated.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his breathing ragged.
Then his hands slide down to grip my thighs, and he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he carries me down the hallway, his mouth never leaving my skin.
When we reach the bedroom, he sets me on the edge of the bed and drops to his knees in front of me.
His hands rest on my thighs, and he looks up at me with dark eyes.
"I'm going to undress you now," he says, his voice low and steady. "If anything feels wrong, if anything reminds you of him, you tell me. We slow down, we stop, we do whatever you need. Understood?"
"Understood."
His fingers find the hem of my shirt, and he lifts it slowly, giving me time to change my mind at every moment. I raise my arms, let him pull it over my head, and feel the cool air hit my skin. His eyes travel over me, appreciative without being predatory, and warmth unfurls in my chest.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so damn beautiful."
Craig used to tell me I was beautiful too, but it always felt like an assessment. A rating. Will says it like a revelation, like he's seeing something that genuinely moves him.
He reaches for the clasp of my bra, and I nod before he can ask. It falls away, and his hands cup me gently, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden under his touch. I gasp, arching into him, and he smiles.
"Responsive. I like that." He leans down to take one nipple into his mouth, and the sensation shoots straight to my core. "I want to hear you, Gemma. Don't hold back."
I don't. When his mouth moves to my other breast, I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders. When his hands slide down my stomach, slow and deliberate, I whimper.
He pops the button on my jeans, drags the zipper down, and I lift my hips to help him.
He peels the denim down my legs, following the path with his mouth—a hot, open kiss to my hip bone, teeth grazing the crease of my thigh, lips brushing the inside of my knee.
By the time he hooks his fingers in my underwear and pulls them down, I'm trembling, slick with want, making sounds I didn't know I was capable of.
He stands, still fully clothed, and runs his eyes over me. I'm bare before him, completely exposed, and I don't feel vulnerable. I feel powerful. I feel seen.
"On the bed," he says. "On your back."
I obey, sliding back on the mattress, and the act of obeying makes heat pool low in my belly. Not because I'm giving up control—because I'm choosing to give it.
He stands, and I watch him strip. No hesitation, no performance—just efficient movements that reveal inch after inch of hard muscle and ink-marked skin.
When he shoves his jeans down his hips, my breath catches.
He's thick and hard, already straining toward me, and I feel an answering clench between my thighs.
He climbs onto the bed, settling over me, bracing himself on his forearms. The weight of him presses me into the mattress, and I feel surrounded without being trapped. Safe. Wanted.
"I'm going to make you feel good," he says against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. "And you're going to let me. You're going to lie here and take what I give you and not worry about anything except how it feels. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good girl."
The praise sends a shiver straight to my core.
He kisses me again, deep and filthy, his tongue stroking mine while his hand travels down my body.
Over my breast, pausing to pinch my nipple until I gasp into his mouth.
Down my ribs, my stomach, my hip. By the time his fingers brush the inside of my thigh, I'm shaking.
"Spread your legs for me."
I do, and he rewards me with a low groan of approval. His fingers slide through my folds, slick and swollen, and I can't hold back the moan.
"Fuck, you're soaked." His voice is rough, almost reverent. "All this for me?"
"Yes." It comes out like a plea. "Just for you."
He strokes me with patient expertise, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me writhe.
When his thumb finds my clit and circles it slowly, I cry out.
When he slides one finger inside me, curling it just right, my hips buck off the bed.
When he adds a second finger, stretching me, I grab fistfuls of the sheets and hold on.
"Eyes on me," he commands, and I force my gaze to meet his. "I want to watch you come."
I've never maintained eye contact during something like this before. Craig preferred me looking away, preferred not to see what was happening to me. But Will's eyes are dark and intense, fixed on my face with an attention that makes me feel like the center of the universe.
His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. His thumb keeps circling, relentless and precise. The pleasure builds and builds until I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.
"Come for me," he says. "Now."
I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my whole body shaking with the force of it, and through it all his eyes never leave mine. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the tremors fade, and when I finally go limp beneath him, he presses a kiss to my forehead.
"That's my girl. That's so good."
I'm floating, boneless and warm, but he's not done. I can feel him hard against my thigh, thick and insistent, and anticipation cuts through the haze.
"Still with me?" he asks.
"Yes. Please. I want—" I struggle to find words. "I want you inside me."
He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of him pressing against me, and pauses. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms straining with the effort of holding back. He's giving me one last chance to change my mind.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer.
He pushes into me slowly, inch by inch, and I gasp at the stretch. He's thick, filling me completely, and my body clenches around him as it adjusts. When he's fully seated, he stills, his breath ragged against my neck.
"Fuck." The word comes out broken. "You feel—" He doesn't finish. Can't, maybe.
I feel tears prick my eyes. Not pain. The opposite. The feeling of finally being filled by someone who wants to be there. Someone who's shaking with the effort of not taking what he wants until he's sure I'm ready.
"Move," I whisper. "Please."
He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, then drives forward in one smooth thrust that makes me cry out.
He sets a rhythm—long, deep strokes that drag against every nerve ending, that hit a spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
His hand grips my thigh, hitching my leg higher, changing the angle, and I nearly scream.
"Right there?" He does it again, harder, and I can only nod. "Yeah. I can feel you squeezing me every time I hit it."
The pace builds. His control frays. His thrusts come faster, rougher, and I match him, my hips rising to meet each one. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with my moans and his low groans.
"Touch yourself," he orders. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
My hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and the combination of his thickness inside me and the pressure on that swollen bundle of nerves sends me hurtling toward the edge.
"That's it." His voice is wrecked. "God, you're so fucking beautiful like this. Come for me, Gemma. Let me feel it."
I shatter. My whole body clamps down on him, waves of pleasure crashing through me, and I hear myself crying out his name.
He groans, deep and guttural, and his rhythm stutters.
Two more thrusts, three, and then he buries himself to the hilt and follows me over, pulsing inside me, my name a ragged prayer on his lips.
Neither of us moves. He's still inside me, softening now, and I don't want to let him go. Eventually he shifts, pulling me against his chest.
"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice soft.
"Safe." The word comes out without thought. "I feel safe."
His arms tighten around me. "Good. That's what I wanted."
I nestle closer, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in the smell of him—clean sweat and soap and something underneath that's purely Will. The hollow emptiness I used to feel after Craig isn't there. Instead there's warmth, contentment, a sense of rightness I've never experienced.
"Is this what it's supposed to feel like?" I ask. "Afterward?"
"What does it feel like?"
"Full. Calm. Like I could fall asleep right here and not be afraid of anything."
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "That's afterglow. And yeah, that's what it's supposed to feel like." He's quiet for a moment. "You know this wasn't—we didn't do a scene tonight. You surrendered, and that was beautiful, but it wasn't submission. Not the way I'd structure it."
"What's the difference?"
"Intent. Negotiation. A scene has boundaries laid out beforehand, a beginning and an end. What we did tonight was just us. No roles, no protocols. Just two people who wanted each other."
I let that sink in. "So the real thing would be... more?"
"Different." His hand strokes down my spine. "More intense in some ways. More structured. We'd talk about it first—what you want, what you're curious about, what's off the table. And afterward, I'd take care of you. Deliberately. Not just because it feels right, but because you'd need it."
"I'd like that," I say. "When I'm ready."
"Whenever you're ready. No rush."
We lie in silence for a while, the moonlight shifting across the walls as the night deepens. My eyelids grow heavy, and for once I don't fight it. For once, sleep feels like something to welcome rather than dread.
"Stay," Will murmurs against my hair. "Stay the night."
"I wasn't planning on leaving."
His chest vibrates with a low laugh. "Good. Because I wasn't planning on letting you."
I smile against his skin, and the last knot in my chest finally loosens.