Epilogue — Home #3
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a condom.
He rolls it onto his hard cock with quick movements while maintaining eye contact.
His cock is thick and perfectly proportioned.
And I'm desperate to feel it inside me.
He lifts me onto the vanity, his hands gripping my waist, and positions himself between my thighs.
The cool marble is shocking against my skin.
It's the last cold thing I feel, because he's already pushing inside me and the stretch is intense and perfect.
He goes slowly, watching my face as he enters.
I gasp against his shoulder because he's so deep, filling me completely.
I grip the back of his neck, my pussy clenching around him as it adjusts to his size.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice rough with restraint.
"Perfect." I breathe.
"Fuck me. Please."
He does.
He sets a rhythm that's deep and thorough and absolutely devastating.
His hands grip my hips to angle me exactly where his cock hits deepest.
He whispers filthy things in my ear.
"Your pussy feels so tight around my cock."
"Take it all."
"You're so fucking beautiful when you're mine."
"I'm going to make you come on my cock."
I'm climbing again impossibly fast.
The angle, the depth, the sheer intensity of him pushes me higher.
My nails dig into his shoulders.
"Harder," I demand.
He groans and delivers.
He drives his cock into me with more force.
I'm climbing, climbing, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside me that makes stars burst across my vision.
He tells me I feel incredible.
He tells me to look at him.
He tells me exactly what he's going to do and then he does it—with focused, relentless precision.
I am climbing again within minutes, my nails dragging down his back, his name on my lips like a prayer and a curse simultaneously.
"That's it," he says, low and intent, his thumb finding the spot that makes my whole body jolt.
"Give it to me."
"I want to feel you."
I shatter for the second time with my face buried in his neck and his arms locked around me.
The sounds he makes against my hair in response are the most privately devastating thing I have encountered in twenty-seven years of existing.
Raw and unguarded.
Nothing like the controlled, composed man who sat down beside me two hours ago.
He follows me over the edge moments later with his face pressed to my throat and my name on his lips.
The silence that arrives afterward is the boneless, wrecked, thoroughly satisfied variety.
The kind that only follows something that exceeded every expectation you arrived with.
We stay tangled together for a moment that neither of us rushes.
His hands trace slow, absent paths along my back.
My forehead rests against his shoulder.
The sconce lighting hums softly.
Outside this locked door, the hotel bar is still serving forty-dollar martinis to people making sensible choices.
I could not care less about a single one of them.
"Good girl," he murmurs into my hair, quiet and warm.
I hate how much I like it.
Hate how it lands somewhere private and pleased and entirely too comfortable.
I tip my head back to look at him.
His jaw is tight.
His eyes dark and unhurried.
His chest still rising with uneven breath.
He is looking at me with an expression that is possessive and raw—and something else underneath both of those things.
Something I do not have the emotional bandwidth to name right now.
Frankly, I am choosing not to.
"Your turn to be impressed," I say.
That almost-smile arrives all the way—full and genuine and catastrophic.
He responds by picking me up off the vanity entirely, hands gripping the backs of my thighs.
I wrap my legs around his waist on pure instinct.
I make a sound against his throat that is embarrassingly reverent.
He carries me the three steps to the wall like I weigh nothing.
It is a feat of both strength and audacity that I am choosing to find attractive rather than alarming.
He presses me against it with a slow, thorough roll of his hips that makes my eyes close and my head tip back against the marble.
I am climbing again, impossibly.
His thumb finds the spot that makes my whole body jolt and he keeps it there—steady and merciless.
He says against my ear, "Look at me when you come."
I do.
I meet his eyes and hold them.
The intimacy of that eye contact, on top of everything else, tips me completely over the edge.
I shatter for the third time with my legs locked around him and my nails dragging down his back.
His name is in my mouth like something sacred.
He follows me with a low, rough groan pressed into my throat, his whole body shuddering against mine.
We stay like that for a long moment with our foreheads together.
Our breathing ragged. The sconce lighting humming its complete indifference to both of us.
He sets me down slowly, carefully.
He keeps his hands on my waist until he's certain my legs have remembered their function.
I smooth my dress back into place.
He presses one last unhurried kiss to my temple, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth.
Like punctuation.
Like he is in no hurry to be finished with me even now.
The tenderness of it, after everything else, is the single most devastating thing that has happened this entire evening.
I step back before it can do any more structural damage.
"Impressed?" he asks quietly.
"Deeply," I say.
My voice is steady. My expression is composed.
Absolutely none of the rest of me is either of those things.
Still thinking about them?