19. Juliette #2
The flashlight beam moves slowly, methodically - the night patrol, doing their rounds.
It tracks across the tall windows, illuminating the half-shelved bookcases, the scattered inventory, the chaos we just made.
My pulse goes loud in my ears. His hand is still cupping me, two fingers resting right at my entrance, and the risk makes everything sharper, hotter, more desperate.
“Don’t move,” I whisper, barely breathing. My nails dig into his shoulders.
“I couldn’t if I wanted to.” His voice is strained. His cock throbs against my thigh, hard and ignored. “You feel too fucking good. I’ve waited too goddamn long.”
“If we get arrested like this,” I breathe, hips twitching despite myself so the tip of his finger slips inside, “Rosie will never let either of us die in peace.”
“If we get arrested like this,” he breathes back, forehead dropping to mine, “I’m listing my occupation as guarantor. And my crime as finally taking what’s mine.”
“Do not make me laugh right now.” The words shake. Tension and want coil so tight I could scream.
“Then stop being someone I want to make laugh even when I’m two seconds from burying myself inside you.” His thumb brushes my clit once, feather-light, and I nearly bite through my lip.
The light pauses at the front door. Tests the handle. Finds it locked.
We stay perfectly still, barely breathing. His heart pounds against my chest. Every muscle in him strains with the effort of holding motionless, his fingers painfully still inside me. The wanting has claws now - six years of careful distance collapsing into this one frozen, filthy moment.
The flashlight moves on.
The footsteps fade.
And the silence, the near-miss, the dark folding back around us - it tips us over.
“Now,” I breathe, rocking down onto his hand. “Please, Zachary. I can’t wait anymore. I’ve been starving for you.”
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure.
He gets my jeans the rest of the way off with a focus that borders on religious, tossing them somewhere into the sticker-strewn dark. When I reach for his belt he catches my wrist and pins it to the worktable above my head. The dominant press of his palm makes my pussy clench hard.
“You had your turn in the pantry,” he says against my throat, voice wrecked with restraint and old pain.
His free hand strokes through my folds again, slow, gathering wetness, circling my clit until my hips jerk.
“You set every term and I kept every one. My turn. I’m going to take you apart until you’re shaking, and you’re going to let me, because we both know how badly you’ve needed this. ”
“That’s not how this-” My protest dies when he slides two fingers deep and curls them. Pleasure punches a gasp out of me.
“Object. Any time. One word and I stop.” He pumps them slowly, thoroughly, watching my face like it’s the only book in the building he’s ever wanted to read.
Every time I make a sound he adjusts - faster, deeper, thumb pressing just right.
“But you won’t. Because you’ve been yearning for me to stop being careful just as hard as I’ve been yearning to ruin you. ”
I don’t object.
He takes me apart with his hands first. Slow. Thorough. Adding a third finger when I start chanting his name, stretching me open while his mouth works my breasts - sucking, biting, praising in filthy broken whispers.
“So wet… so greedy… look how you take my fingers… I’ve dreamed about this every fucking night for six years… the sounds you make when you’re close… that’s it, Jules, soak my hand…”
When my knees stop being useful he holds me up with one arm and doesn’t gloat about it. His thumb moves in tight circles and the dark shop tilts.
“Zachary-”
“Not yet.” His mouth finds my ear. Teeth scrape the lobe. “I waited weeks at the end of a dirt lane like a fucking dog hoping you’d come back. You can wait one more minute while I feel how wet you get for me.”
“I hate you.” The lie comes out as a sob. My free hand claws at his back.
“You don’t.” His fingers crook harder, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl. “That’s the whole goddamn problem. You love me. You never stopped. And I’m going to make you come so hard you forget every second we wasted.”
I break with his name in my teeth and his hand over my mouth, muffling me the way the empty shop demands. Pleasure rips through me in violent waves; I clench around his fingers and shake apart while he works me through it, whispering praise against my cheek.
Before I’ve finished shaking I shove him back a step, slide off the table, and drop to my knees on the cold concrete. Stickers cling to my skin. I tear his belt open, yank his jeans down, and free his cock, thick and straining. I want him in my mouth more than I want air.
“Fuck, Juliette-”
I take him into my mouth in one slow slide, and the broken groan he lets out is the best sound I’ve ever heard.
He tastes like salt and want. I hollow my cheeks and sink deeper, tongue working the underside, and his hand immediately fists in my hair.
The grip is firm, almost rough, guiding without forcing, and the hot control of it shoots straight between my legs again.
He uses the hold to pull me back until just the head rests on my tongue, then pushes me down again, fucking my mouth in shallow, careful strokes.
“Jesus Christ… look at you… on your knees for me in the middle of your shop… taking me so well… your mouth is fucking heaven… I’ve needed this… needed you… goddamn, the way you suck me…”
Spit runs down my chin. I moan around him and the vibration makes his hips jerk.
His fist tightens in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me while he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher, the wet filthy sounds filling the dark.
Tears prick my eyes from the stretch and the overwhelming rightness of it.
I hollow my cheeks harder, one hand cradling his balls, and feel him throb dangerously.
He pulls me off with a wet pop before he can finish, chest heaving.
“Inside you,” he rasps. “Now. I need to come inside my wife.”
He lifts me back onto the table, steps between my thighs, and drives into me in one hard stroke.
The stretch is raw and six years overdue.
We both cry out. He doesn’t give me time to adjust - he moves like a man settling a debt, deep and hard and relentless, the table creaking under us.
I lock my heels at the small of his back and pull him deeper, giving him back every ounce of force he gives me.
“Harder,” I demand, nails raking his shoulders. “Fuck me like you mean all those years. Like you’re never letting me go again.”
“Never,” he snarls against my mouth, hips snapping. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Every fucking sound you make is mine. I love you… I love you… I should have fought harder… should have chased you down and dragged you home…”
At some point the table becomes too much.
We lose it entirely and find the floor in a tangle of limbs and scattered stickers, and I do not care.
I do not care about anything except the rhythm of him pounding into me on the cold concrete, the raw unpolished things he’s saying into my neck, the way his hand finds mine and pins it above my head so our fingers lace tight.
“Look at me,” I order, because I want to watch it happen - want to see the moment the last wall between us finally crumbles.
He looks at me.
And he doesn’t hide.
He comes apart with my name breaking in half in his mouth, hips grinding deep as he spills inside me in hot, pulsing waves.
The feel of him filling me triggers my own orgasm; I follow him over with my fingers buried in his hair and my cry muffled against his shoulder, clenching around him like I’ll never let him leave.
After, we’re on the floor.
Sticky. Shaking. Surrounded by price tags and torn cotton and the smell of sex and old paper.
His full weight pins me down in the best way.
One of his hands still cradles the back of my head; the other strokes lazily along my side like he needs to keep proving I’m here.
My heart feels cracked open and finally full.