15. Juliette #3
“I am begging.” His eyes are fever-bright, never leaving mine. “Please. Fuck - please either finish me or let me touch you. I’m going crazy. I need to feel you. Need to be inside you. Need to make you come on my cock while you look at me like that.”
I decide I’ve teased enough.
I shove my own underwear down, step out of them, and hike my nightgown up to my waist. Then I hook one leg around his hip, line him up, and sink down onto him, slow, taking him inch by inch.
The stretch punches a sob against his mouth.
He fills me until there’s no room left for anything except him and the six years of longing crushing my ribs.
“Fuck - Juliette-” His head knocks back again but he forces his eyes right back to mine. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare close them. I want you to see every second of how completely I belong to you while you take what’s yours.”
I ride him hard and slow against the shelves, hands braced on his chest, staring straight into his eyes the entire time.
Every roll of my hips makes the jars chime.
His knuckles are pure white on the wood.
He keeps his hands exactly where I put them even though I can feel how badly he wants to grab my ass and fuck up into me.
The restraint is the hottest thing I’ve ever felt.
Dirty praise and broken yearning pour out of him between thrusts.
“That’s it… take every fucking inch… I’ve missed this pussy so goddamn much… missed you… use me, Jules… bounce on my cock until you come… I want to feel it… want to watch your face when you fall apart on me…”
I slip one hand between us and rub my clit in tight circles, still holding that searing eye contact.
The double pressure builds fast, sharpened by every week of denial and every cruel word we just threw.
When I come it takes my legs first - rolling, vicious waves that make me clench rhythmically around him and cry out his name.
He watches every second of it, eyes wide, mouth open, still obediently gripping the shelf.
“Your turn,” I pant, still pulsing around him. “Come inside me. Fill me up while you look at me. I want to feel it dripping out of me after you leave.”
That’s all it takes.
He surges up to meet me with a broken shout, hips snapping as much as the angle allows, and comes hard - hot, endless pulses that paint my insides while his eyes stay locked on mine the entire time.
The intimacy of it undoes me all over again.
I feel every spurt, every tremor, every shattered breath he pours into the tiny space between our mouths.
When I finally step back, my legs are unsteady, my lips are swollen, and his come is already starting to slip down my thigh. My heart is pounding so hard I feel lightheaded.
He looks destroyed.
His shirt is rucked up, his trousers open and shoved halfway down his hips, his cock still half-hard and glistening with both of us.
His hair is a disaster from the shelf. He’s breathing like he just ran a marathon and his eyes are glassy with leftover pleasure and, more dangerous than any of it, hope.
He stays exactly where I left him, hands still on the wood, watching me with an expression of pure, shell-shocked hunger and devotion.
“Okay.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected, even though I’m still throbbing and unsteady. I tug my nightgown down and step farther away, putting deliberate cold distance between us. “You should leave now.”
He nods. Swallows hard. Looks around the pantry like a man trying to remember which country he’s in.
His hand comes up and very carefully straightens one jar his shoulders knocked crooked - puts my mother’s plum preserves back in perfect line before he even thinks about covering himself - and that small, instinctive housekeeping undoes me worse than anything his cock just did. My eyes sting.
He doesn’t argue. He starts to put himself back together with hands that are still visibly shaking. Belt. Button. Zipper. Shirt smoothed down with almost comical care.
At the door he stops, one hand on the frame, not turning around. The line of his back is rigid with everything he’s not saying.
“This changes nothing,” I tell his back, in case either of us was confused. My voice only wavers a little. I can still feel him inside me. The evidence of what we just did is slick on my skin.
“It changes everything,” he says quietly. The words are soft but absolute. “I’ll pretend otherwise for exactly as long as you need me to. I’ll wait at the bottom of those steps again if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t ask me to stop wanting you. I never learned how.”
“I’ll go,” he adds after a beat. “But Juliette-”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand even though he can’t see it. Tears threaten and I refuse to let them fall while he’s still here. “Don’t ruin it with words. Just go.”
He goes.
I watch from the window as he walks to his car, every step looking like it costs him. Only when the taillights disappear down the lane do I let my forehead drop against the cool glass. My body is still humming with him. The pantry smells like sex and sugar and old jam.
And for the first time since I signed the papers, the divorce feels like the cruelest lie I’ve ever told.