Chapter 12 EVE
Chapter twelve
EVE
The orgasm is still rolling through me in a way that has my very core fluttering.
I didn’t think that was a thing. Until now.
I said one night.
One thing I could tuck away in a drawer marked Almost and Doesn’t Count. But this feels like every second we didn’t have.
I don’t want slow. I don’t want delicate. I want the years back. I want to be touched. And he’s kissing me.
Not soft. Not careful. Just heat and tongue and need, like he can’t stop devouring me.
His cock presses hard against me through his sweatpants, hot and twitching. I rock against him and feel the strain in his body, the tension in every breath.
“Take them off,” I whisper, and my voice doesn’t even sound like mine anymore.
His lips hover just over mine. His breath fans against my mouth.
“Say that again,” he says, low and guttural. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Adam,” I breathe. “Take. Off. Your pants.”
His groan is deep and unfiltered, the sound of a man done pretending he’s holding it together.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He stands and he watches me the whole time. Like he’s giving me the show, but it’s not for performance. It’s for us.
He pulls his shirt over his head, his abs tightening with the motion, and tosses it aside.
Then he grips the waistband of his sweatpants and slides them down, underwear with them, inch by aching inch, revealing the cock I’ve seen before on a screen but never like this.
Up close.
Hard.
Leaking at the tip.
His eyes darken when I stare. When I lean forward and lick him, once, slow and deliberate, from the base to the head.
He hisses through his teeth, head tipping back.
“Fuck, Eve…”
I do it again, swirling my tongue over the head, tasting him, and feeling the tremble in his thighs.
“I swear to God,” he says, breath broken, “you keep doing that and I’m not going to last long enough to be inside you.”
I look up at him. “Then stop talking and get in me.”
He growls, crashes back down to the blanket-covered floor, and kisses me like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
He grabs the condom, tears it open with shaking hands, and rolls it on fast. Then he slicks his cock with the moisturizer, slow at first, then rougher, like even touching himself now is too much.
But as he moves between my legs, I go still for just a second.
“It might be… messy,” I say, the words barely making it past my throat.
Not because I’m afraid of him. But because I remember how it used to feel to apologize for my own body.
Adam freezes. Looks at me like I’ve just handed him something fragile and sacred.
And then he says in a voice that’s low, sure, reverent, destined to play on repeat in my mind for decades to come:
“Good.”
His hand slides between us, not to rush, but to feel. To show me what he already knows.
“You think you just got this wet by accident?” he says, voice wrecked. “You think this happened without me putting my mouth on you? Touching you? Making you feel everything?”
He presses the head of his cock against me, slowly. So warm, so slick, so intentional.
“I made you messy, Eve. And now the moisturizer just makes it easier for me to fuck you like I want to. Deep, slow, exact. You hear me?”
I nod.
He leans in, mouth at my ear. “I want to feel you dripping for me. I want to feel every part of you open for me because I made it happen. With the lube. Without it. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you want it. This is ours.”
“Ours,” I repeat. “You. Me. Us.” Three words again.
He starts to slide in, and everything inside me goes tight.
It’s not just the size. It’s the way he holds my hips like I might float away. The way his breath catches on every inch that disappears into me. The way I’m so ready, thanks to him, to the lube, he glides inside like I was made to take him.
He stills once he’s buried. All the way.
I’m trembling. Panting. So full I can barely think.
He groans against my neck. “Fuck, Eve.” And then, he continues, “‘She opened for him like a dream she’d never dared to dream.’” He’s reciting one of my favorite books from Lady Grey again.
And that memory. That touch. That voice…
Oh. “‘And when he filled her, she didn’t break. They were writing a new ending. And it was his favorite fucking story.’”
A noise breaks from my throat—half-sob, half-moan—and then he moves.
Slow, grinding thrusts that feel like they could go on forever.
Every time he slides out, I clench around him like I don’t want him to leave. Every time he pushes back in, deeper and deeper, it lights me up from the inside.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t lose control. He simply holds me, hips rolling, rotating, his hard length dragging over every nerve ending.
I dig my fingers into his back, dragging my nails over sweat-damp skin, and moan into his shoulder.
“You feel so good,” I pant. “I can’t… Oh, Adam—”
“I’ve got you,” he groans. “I’ve fucking got you.”
He adjusts his angle and hits something that makes my vision blur.
“Oh my God—”
“Just Adam,” he murmurs, making me smile, making me lose myself in the moment as he keeps thrusting. Steady. Deep. Perfect.
My body tightens, pleasure building sharp and fast.
I’m shaking before it hits me.
And when it does…
I scream.
My whole body locks around him. Legs trembling. Hands gripping. Orgasm ripping through me so hard I think I black out for a second.
He keeps going. One more thrust. Another. And then he loses it.
Growls my name. Slams in deep.
And comes so hard I feel it in everywhere.
He drops against me, panting. Still inside. Still shaking.
And is that the pipes making a noise in the distance? Or my breathing?
We lie there, spent in the best way.
I don’t want him to move. I want to keep him there. Inside me. For one more second. Forever.
Eventually, he pulls out with a groan. Ties the condom. Wraps it in a tissue. Crosses the room and tosses it in the trash.
And then he comes back.
To me. Like he still can’t get enough of me. He kisses my collarbone. My port scar.
Then lower.
The scar near my sternum.
I’d tense if my muscles weren’t so relaxed.
He continues his exploration.
My ribs.
The scar near my spleen.
Each kiss is slow, deliberate.
“You’re here,” he whispers.
I blink.
“I’m lucky.”
And those words lodge themselves into my heart. Because it’s not about this moment.
It’s about the fact that I’m alive.
That he still sees me.
That I let him.
I close my eyes. Try not to feel too much. Completely fail at it.
Despite how many times I repeat myself that this doesn’t change anything.
Tomorrow, he leaves.
Tomorrow, I go back to the version of me who doesn’t make messy choices like this.
But tonight…
Tonight I get to keep this, to keep him, to keep us.
His breath slows as his strong arm wraps around me.
He doesn’t say anything else.
But I don’t need him to.
For the first time in a long time, I understand what all those romance novels were trying to say. It’s not about the perfect ending. It’s about the person who sees you, even with the scars.
And chooses to stay.
Even just for one night.