Chapter 6 #2
And his face—God, his face. Not polite. Not kind. Not the careful, generous expression of a man doing a woman a favor. Hunger. Pure, uncomplicated, starving hunger, the look of a man seeing exactly what he wants and wondering who the hell convinced her to cover it up.
“Come here,” he says. His voice has gone rough.
I close the distance. His mouth finds my neck—open, hot, his teeth grazing my collarbone—and his hands spread across my back, my waist, pulling me against him until there’s no air between us.
I yank the sweater over his head and press my palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slam under my fingers, and when I drag my nails down his stomach his breath catches like I’ve burned him.
He walks me backward to the bed. My knees hit the mattress and I sit and he follows me down, his weight settling over me, his mouth on mine—deeper now, dirtier, his tongue sliding against mine while his hand finds my breast through the lace and his thumb circles my nipple until I arch up into him, gasping.
“Off,” I say, pulling at his belt. “I need—off.”
He kneels up. Unbuckles. I watch him strip—the belt, the jeans, the boxer briefs—and his cock is hard, thick, gorgeous against his stomach, and the sight of it sends a pulse of wet heat between my thighs that makes me clench.
He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra. Pulls it away. The cool air hits my nipples and then his mouth is there—hot, wet, sucking, his tongue flicking hard while his hand palms my other breast, and I’m gripping the sheets with both fists and moaning in a voice I barely recognize.
“You have no idea,” he says against my skin, his lips dragging down my stomach, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the soft flesh I’ve hated for years. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve thought about this.”
He hooks his fingers into my underwear and pulls them down my legs, slow, watching my face while he does it. Then he settles between my thighs and my heart is slamming so hard I can hear it in my ears, and when the first broad stroke of his tongue drags over my clit, my hips buck off the bed.
“Fuck—“
His hands grip my thighs. He spreads me open and eats me out like he’s been thinking about nothing else—slow, firm, relentless strokes, his tongue flat and hot, working my clit until I’m shaking.
My hand finds his hair and grips and he groans against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core, and when he slides two fingers inside me—curling, pressing, finding the spot that whites out my vision—I cry out loud enough that some distant part of my brain thinks the neighbors and the rest of me does not care.
“Right there—don’t stop—please—“
He doesn’t stop. His tongue circles my clit in tight, devastating rhythm while his fingers work me from the inside, and the orgasm builds like a wave cresting—slow, enormous, inevitable—and when it breaks it tears through me with a force that bows my spine off the mattress, my thighs clamping around his head, his name ripping out of my throat in a sound that doesn’t belong to the woman who wore dark colors and stood in her kitchen and smiled while her husband told her to try harder.
I’m still shaking when he rises over me. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are black in the lamplight and the look on his face is wrecked and wanting and completely, devastatingly focused on me.
“Condom,” I manage. “Nightstand.”
He reaches. Tears the wrapper. I watch him roll it on—his hand around himself, the flex of his forearm—and my mouth goes dry and my hips tilt toward him before I tell them to.
He settles over me. The head of his cock presses against me, slick and hot, and I’m so wet I can feel it on my thighs. He holds my gaze.
“Look at me,” he says.
I look at him. And he pushes inside me—one long, slow, devastating thrust that fills me so completely I forget how to breathe. My mouth opens. No sound comes out. Just a full-body shudder that rolls through me from my chest to my toes, and Jasper’s forehead drops against mine, his breath ragged.
“Christ.” His breathing is jagged. “You feel—Mara—“
“Move,” I whisper. “Please move.”
He pulls back and drives in again, deep, and the moan I make is guttural—not pretty, not performed, the raw sound of a woman being fucked by a man who is looking at her like she is the most extraordinary thing he has ever seen.
He finds a rhythm—slow, then harder, reading my body, adjusting when my breath hitches, going deeper when my nails rake his back.
My legs wrap around his waist and the angle shifts and there, right there, and I gasp and he groans and his pace breaks open into something urgent, something that matches the frantic, building pressure low in my belly.
“Harder,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake. “I want to feel you.”
He grips my hip and gives me what I asked for—deep, driving thrusts that push me up the bed, that make the headboard tap the wall, that punch the air out of my lungs in sharp, broken cries.
His hand slides between us and finds my clit, rubbing in fast circles while he fucks me, and the dual sensation sends me climbing so fast I can’t catch my breath.
“Come for me.” His mouth against my ear, his voice low and shattered. “I want to feel you come.”
My back arches. My hands claw the sheets. The orgasm hits like a detonation—blinding, obliterating, clenching around him so hard he swears and drives deep and holds, his body shuddering, his hips jerking against mine as he comes with a groan that vibrates through my chest.
We don’t move. His weight is on me—heavy, real, grounding—and his face is buried in my neck and I can feel his heart hammering against my ribs and the room smells like sex and wine and the fading Bolognese from the kitchen and I am alive. Every nerve. Every inch of skin. Alive.
He lifts his head. Looks at me. Brushes a strand of damp hair off my forehead with a tenderness that cracks something in my chest.
“Stay,” I say.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls me against him—my back to his chest, his arm heavy across my waist, his palm flat against the stomach I’ve hidden for five years. He presses his lips to my shoulder. Holds me like I’m something worth holding.
The lamp is still on. My body is visible—every curve, every mark, every inch I spent years apologizing for—and the man behind me hasn’t closed his eyes. Hasn’t looked away. Hasn’t asked me to make a goddamn thing easier for him.
I press my hand over his. Close my eyes.
Jermaine told me to make a little effort.
Jasper hasn’t taken his eyes off me all night.
Thank you for reading!