40. Amiyah #3
Jae moves with unhurried precision—no frantic urgency, just the calm, methodical certainty of a man who knows exactly what he wants.
His hands find the waistband of my shorts, sliding them down my hips and off my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me in just my camisole and lace thong under his heavy gaze.
“Turn around,” he says.
I turn and his hand settles warm against the small of my back, guiding me forward until I’m bent over his lap, my stomach pressed against his thighs, exposed ad utterly at his mercy. His palm rests against the curve of my cheek, heavy and warm, before the first strike lands.
A sharp, crisp crack echoes in the quiet apartment. Pain blooms—bright, immediate, a hot flush spreading across my skin—and I gasp, my fingers digging into the cushion.
“Count,” he commands.
“One,” I manage, my voice already unsteady.
The second strike lands on the opposite cheek, harder, and my hips jerk involuntarily, a broken sound escaping my throat.
“Two.”
He doesn’t rush. Each strike is measured, deliberate, connecting with the same precise force, alternating sides, building a rhythm that has my thighs shaking and my breath coming in short, ragged pulls.
By the fifth strike, I’ve stopped pretending I’m not entirely undone by it.
By the eighth, I’m making noises I would deny under oath, each impact sending a jolt of heat straight through my core—owning me, claiming me, turning me into something molten and desperate.
“Ten,” I gasp on the final stroke, my voice wrecked and trembling.
His palm rests against the sting, a flat and heavy warmth that soothes the sharp ache, and the sudden gentleness after the pain makes my breath catch, a deep, unsteady pull of air that feels like it comes from the bottom of my ribs.
He helps me up, turning me to face him, and his mouth finds mine with a hunger that matches the ache between my thighs.
His hands are cupping my breasts over the lace, then thumbing my nipples to aching points, before sliding down to hook his thumbs into the sides of my panties and stripping them away until I’m completely bare, standing in the fairy light glow with the absolute certainty that I belong to him.
He strips his shirt off, pushes his jeans down just enough to free his hard, thick length, and guides me back onto the couch, dropping to his knees between my spread thighs.
His mouth finds my clit with devastating precision.
His tongue circles slow and firm, and I arch off the couch with a choked cry.
He works me with unhurried focus—building slowly, his tongue flat while two fingers curl inside me, finding the spot that makes my vision blur and my thighs clamp around his head.
He edges me.
Draws it out.
Brings me right to the brink and backs off, leaving me wet and trembling, only to return seconds later until I’m begging, my hands fisted in his hair, my hips rocking against his mouth.
“Please,” I gasp, when the third edge has me shaking. “Jae, please, I—”
He pulls back, looking up at me from between my thighs, his mouth glistening, his dark eyes holding mine with quiet, devastating attention.
“On your knees, jagiya,” he says, his voice low and rumbly. “I want to see how pretty your lips look wrapped around my cock.”
I don’t weigh my options.
I don’t calculate.
I just move, sliding onto the floor onto my knees on the hardwood, and take him into my mouth without a second thought.
He’s thick, stretching my lips, the taste of him salt-bitter and warm. His hand fists in my hair, not yanking, just holding, guiding my pace with firm pressure. I take him deep until my eyes water, then pull back, dragging my tongue along the underside before sinking down again.
He watches me the entire time, his free hand cupping my cheek, his eyes dark, focused, and entirely wrecked as he watches me take him, saliva dripping down my chin.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his accent thickening. “Look at you. So good for me. Taking my cock so pretty.”
I moan around him, and his grip tightens, his control fraying at the edges as he thrusts shallowly into my mouth.
He pulls me off before he comes, pulling me to my feet and turning me toward the couch.
“Face down. Ass up. Now.”
I bend over the cushions, and he positions himself behind me—the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, wet from my mouth and my own arousal—before pushing in with one long, slow stroke that has me seeing stars.
He bottoms out, holding there for a beat that feels like forever, both of us breathing hard, his hands gripping my hips with enough pressure to leave marks.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my neck.
“It's—it’s perfect,” I gasp.
He moves, and the world narrows to the drag and fill of him, the thick stretch of each stroke pulling a sound from somewhere low in my chest. His thumb presses into the dimple above my hip, tilting me, and the new angle splits me open—each thrust landing with a deep, resonant impact that climbs my spine and dissolves behind my eyes.
My fingers scrabble against the cushion. I stop thinking in sentences.
I come apart.
A violent, shuddering orgasm rips through me without warning, my inner walls clenching around him, a broken cry tearing from my throat.
He doesn’t stop. He drives into me through the aftershocks, his hand sliding around to find my clit, rubbing firm circles that have me coming again before the first wave has fully faded, sobbing into the cushion.
“Jae—fuck—Jae—”
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough against my neck. “Come on my cock. Scream my name. Let me hear you, jagiya.”
I scream. I sob. I come a third time with his fingers on my clit and his cock buried deep, and somewhere in the haze I hear him groan, his rhythm breaking as he empties himself inside me with a low, ragged sound.
We collapse together onto the couch, a tangled mess of sweat and trembling limbs, his chest pressed against my back, his arm heavy across my waist. The lights cast our shadows across the wall—two shapes merged into one, breathing in unison.
We don’t worry about condoms because I’m on birth control and we both got tested for all that we could to put mainly my mind at ease.
In my ear, Penelope has been producing a series of sounds for the past fifteen minutes ranging from scandalized to deeply personally offended. She did not disconnect. She is, after all, a professional.
The line is finally silent now.
I can feel the absence of her presence like an empty socket, knowing she heard every second of this and is currently reevaluating every life choice that brought her here.
The twins were never called. The kill window has passed. The compact sits on the coffee table, its rhinestones catching the fairy light glow, and I haven't moved to pick it up.
Eventually, we make it to the bed. Jae climbs in, pulling me against his chest, and within minutes his breathing evens out, deep and steady, his arm heavy across my ribs, his face buried in my hair.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, completely still, completely awake, entirely aware of what I did and didn't do tonight.
The compact sits on the nightstand. Penelope’s line is dead. The underground is waiting for a report I have no intention of filing. Law school resumes in fourteen hours, and the bar exam looms like a cliff I’m supposed to jump off without a parachute.
And beside me, warm and solid and devastatingly alive, Jae sleeps with his hand curled against my stomach, his pulse steady against my spine.
I ask myself, not for the first time and with considerably less detachment than I would like, whether this cycle is ever going to fucking end.