Chapter 5 #2
I brace my spine against the headboard, shifting so the pillows cradle me at just the right angle.
My slip hikes up, barely more than a scrap of silk at this point, clinging to my ribs, riding high on my hips.
Heat fires up my skin—anticipation, nerves, there’s always this microsecond of performance anxiety before I go all in, but pole class has made me bulletproof.
I curl one leg up, foot flat against the headboard, and the other swings wide, toes pointed, flexed out to impossible angles because fuck it, I’m not going to play shy tonight.
Silence crashes back in—thick, electric.
My scent floods the room, smoky vanilla gone molten with need, and I don’t even try to pretend I’m hiding it.
Let him fucking choke on it. Witness how wet I am—slick pooling between my thighs, my pussy glistening in the city light, folds flushed and swollen, open for inspection like the world’s most exclusive menu item.
Only difference?
There’s no one else on the guest list.
Only Cale…
For a split second, he stares like he can’t process what he’s seeing. His bravado short-circuits—eyes go dark, jaw clenches, breathing stutters. He stops stroking, hand frozen at the base of his cock, and I watch the mask shatter.
Every trace of control he thought he had evaporates, replaced by a hunger so sharp it might cut me.
He grunts—low, animal, half warning—and then he pounces.
Crawling up the bed, hands splayed, devouring the distance between us like it’s his last lap on the circuit. He barely pauses to breathe before his face is buried between my legs, nose pressed to my mound, tongue lashing out to lap the first slick bead he finds.
I let my head fall back, spine arching, knuckles white as I fist the sheets behind me.
The first lick is always the worst—shock, electricity, every nerve in my clit firing so hard my vision goes white around the edges.
He doesn’t hesitate, not for a second. He eats me like he’s starved, mouth greedy, tongue twisting between my folds, lapping up everything I give, and then coming back for more.
The noises—god, the noises—obscene, wet, all tongue and suction and the gasping mess of my own breath rattling around the room.
I spread wider, just to see if he’ll lose his mind; he does.
He reaches around and grabs my thighs, shoving them up and out, bending me further than I thought was possible without a studio mirror and a foam mat.
I get the tiniest flash of triumph—it’s not just pole class, it’s the years I spent refusing to be contained by anyone’s expectations.
My pussy clenches again, hard enough to hurt. He notices as he groans into me—mouth vibrating against my clit, the sound traveling all the way into my bones. I want to scream, but that would be admitting weakness, so instead I choke it down, let it come out as a strangled, high-pitched whine.
He shifts tactics, tongue flicking my clit in light, relentless pulses, then plunging deep inside, fucking me with his mouth the way he does with his cock—methodical, ruthless, perfectly tuned to ruin me.
My hands scramble for anything to hold, fingers catching in his hair, yanking hard enough to make his eyes water if he could see straight.
My body starts to vibrate—this hot, fuzzy tension winding up in my gut, threatening to snap. I feel every second of it, every slow drag of his tongue, every hard suck on my swollen flesh, every slick wave that rushes out and coats his chin.
I don’t last.
I never do, not when he eats me out like this.
Orgasm builds so fast it’s like being hit by a runaway tire, slamming through me with enough violence to make my back arch off the headboard. I try to warn him—it’s the decent thing to do—but all that comes out is a choked sob, and then I explode.
Slick sprays out in a messy, mortifying rush, splattering his face, his mouth, the sheets underneath us. He fucking moans—then doubles down, sucking and licking everything like a man possessed, swallowing it all and coming back for seconds.
When he finally pulls away, his chin is glossy with my release, and he’s just grinning—wild, victorious, totally in his element.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice rough with satisfaction.
I giggle—no, actually giggle, which feels illegal, but whatever, I’m high as a kite and not apologizing.
“That’s why you’re helping me clean up, yes?”
He groans—louder this time—and instead of answering, he brings his hand up and flicks my clit, hard.
I jolt, whole body going tight, vision blurring for a second as aftershocks rattle through me. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then another, then works his way up my torso like he’s climbing a mountain and I’m the prize waiting at the summit.
His mouth finds my abs, kisses hot and sharp over muscles still quivering from the afterglow, then up to my ribs where he lingers, breathing me in, letting our scents tangle in the air.
Burnt cedar, vanilla, sweat, sex—it’s a fucking symphony, and I want to bottle it, wear it as a fuck-you to every dumbass Alpha in the paddock.
He kisses up, chest to chest, hand braced on my side, until our lips crash together—hard, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the taste of my own slick on his mouth. He kisses like fighting, like fucking, like there’s nothing else worth living for.
And then he slides up, knees braced on either side of my thighs, lining the head of his cock against my entrance. It’s hot, hard, leaking against my swollen folds, and just the tease—just the brush of it—makes me want to shatter all over again.
We lock eyes, neither willing to blink, both wanting to win.
But there are no winners here, just the wreckage of whatever comes next.
It’s perfect.
The way he presses in—slow, relentless, an inch at a time—makes my whole world go white around the edges.
The head of his cock teases, then pushes, not rough but not gentle either, just a steady, calculated pressure that spreads me open and fills me until I’m two heartbeats from combustion.
He wants to savor it—I can tell, from the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands shake for a second before he steadies himself against my ribs.
He pins me with one arm beside my head, fingers splayed in the sheets, the other grips my hip so hard I know there’ll be bruises in the morning, black and blue, fingerprints I’ll wear like medals. He stares down at me, silver eyes molten, and for a split second I want to flinch from the intensity.
Not fear—just the shock of being seen, really seen, exposed to a depth that has nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with the years we spent going toe-to-toe, never giving an inch.
I wrap my legs around his waist, lock my ankles at the small of his back, and haul him in deeper. The angle changes—he sinks even further, lifting my hips off the bed with the force of his thrust, and just like that, I’m full. Overfull. Crammed to the limit.
We don’t move at first. Not really. Just savor the stretch, the contact, the sensation of bodies built for friction struggling not to explode right out of the gate.
It’s a stalemate.
But the clock won’t let us idle forever.
He moves first—rocking his hips back, almost all the way out, then slow-rolling forward, each stroke smooth as champagne poured down cold glass.
I can feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of his cock inside me.
My pussy clamps down without mercy, milking him for more than he’s willing to give yet.
He groans. The sound is so raw it scrapes my skin, pushes me closer to the edge just from the force of it. I give it right back—a gasp, a shudder, my body arching up to meet him, slip falling away so my breasts crush to his chest.
Skin to skin, sweat and scent, and the wild undercurrent of competition.
Our scents tangle in the air—his burnt cedar, coffee, and raw amber now thick with the sweet-spiked musk of my own need.
The perfume is animal, dizzying, a chemical bomb that makes my suppressants feel like a bad joke.
There’s nothing muted about what we are right now, no hiding designation or pretending this doesn’t matter.
His grip on my hip turns punishing.
I arch up, meeting every thrust, greedy for the friction, the pressure, the way he manages to hit the perfect spot every time like he’s got a roadmap tattooed behind his eyes.
I drag my nails down his back—over tattoos, scars, every inch I know by heart—leaving red trails in my wake.
He hisses, a savage little noise, but instead of flinching he doubles down, rutting into me harder.
The bedframe shudders, headboard knocking against the wall.
I brace for the neighbors to complain, then remember—nobody in this building would dare report me.
They’re too busy choking on our victory.
We’re still staring each other down. Not once does he look away; not during the slow grind, not during the abrupt jackhammering that starts when our nerves finally short-circuit and logic goes out the fucking window.
Our gazes lock—challenge, plea, threat, promise. Everything at once, nothing denied.
He leans in, lips scraping my ear, voice a gunshot.
“Tell me whose pussy this is.”
I clench, half in rage, half in want.
“You wish. It’s just on loan, asshole.”
He laughs—dark, delirious, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.
“Fuck, you’re stubborn. You know I’m going to win, right? Every time, princess.”
It gets to me, it always does.
The petnames, the taunts, the reminder that he’d rather die than let me walk away as anything but his equal—or his rival.
“You’re not even close. The minute I come, your brain’s going to short-circuit and you’re gonna beg for mercy.”
He bares his teeth—animal, unhinged.
“Then do it. Show me.”