Chapter 11 #2
He holds my gaze, and this time there’s no escape.
“We were high school sweethearts,” he says, each word careful and deliberate.
“You know how that goes? You’re supposed to go to prom together, then college, then get married, then do it all by the book.
And we did, right down to the bad photos and the registry at Crate I was busy with my Ph.D.
program and becoming the next great American novelist while living in a cabin in the woods to work on my “art.” After years of growing apart, it became apparent that we’d become different people. ”
He pauses, leans forward to refill my glass even though I haven’t finished it. “It wasn’t some tragic blowout. Just a thousand tiny fractures, until neither of us could remember why we got together in the first place. Sandra’s married to someone else now, with twins. We’re not bitter.”
I take that in. For some reason, it’s easier than I expected.
“Why did you stay single?” I ask. “You’re, like, objectively very handsome, and have a cool job. Did you just give up?”
Liam smiles, a little embarrassed. “You don’t get how intimidating you are, do you?
” I arch a brow at that, and he backpedals: “I mean, not you specifically. I mean, yes, you specifically, but also when talking about other women. I tried dating. I even tried dating a colleague, but it felt like a job interview every time we met for coffee.”
He looks away. “I guess I’m picky.”
I shift, knees brushing his. “Or maybe you just needed someone to call you out on your bullshit.”
He laughs, full-bodied this time. “That’s possible.”
The next question is waiting in the back of my throat, acidic and sharp, but I let it out anyway. “Do you ever get lonely?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. “Every day,” he says, voice quiet. “But I’m not saying that for pity. I like my life, mostly. I just didn’t expect to want this again.”
I swirl the wine, watching it cling to the glass. “You mean, me and what we have together.”
He nods, and the motion is almost reverent.
It’s suddenly too much to look at him, so I tilt my head, focusing on the dark blue shadows in the corners of the room. “So what makes you lonely? Do you see your family? Friends?” I ask, almost a whisper.
He blinks. “Sometimes. But I had no siblings, and my parents are doing their own thing, which is good. A lot of my old friends kept their distance after the divorce. I guess I was the villain in someone’s version of the story.”
He shrugs, then turns, gently, to me. “What about you, Simone? You said your mom was all about not getting kicked out of college.”
I smile, but it feels rubbery. “That was a lie. My mom died when I was ten. My dad went two years later—stomach cancer. After that, it was just me and the Minnesota foster system. I sometimes fib and talk like I have parents because let’s be honest - no one really wants to hear about my sad childhood. ”
His face changes—not pity, but something raw. “Fuck.”
I laugh, high and glassy. “It’s not that bad. I’m, like, the poster child for what happens when a scholarship committee wants a heartstring story. Now I just have to not fuck it up.”
He puts a hand on my knee, not heavy, just enough to anchor me. “You’re not going to fuck it up.”
I look at his hand, then at his eyes. “You don’t know that. I’ve never done any of this before.” I say it soft, but the weight behind it is heavier than I want to admit.
He strokes my knee with his thumb. “I know, but you’re getting through, Simone, and that’s something to be proud of.”
We sit like that, the quiet pressing in. It feels, for the first time, like I’m seeing the man instead of the professor, the hard shell of authority melted into something vulnerable. I want to tell him everything. I want to say nothing at all.
He shifts a little closer, wine forgotten. “I want to see you again,” he says, voice almost hoarse. “Outside of class. Not just—” He gestures, helpless, at the candles and the dishes and the wreckage of dinner. “Not just occasionally for special dinners. I mean, every week. Maybe every day.”
I nod, heart jackhammering. “I want that too.”
“We’ll have to be careful,” he says, “but I don’t want to stop. Not unless you say so.”
“I won’t,” I promise, and I mean it.
He grins, and it’s like the first day of spring. “You know, you’re kind of amazing.”
I look away, embarrassed. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel like a science experiment that’s about to blow up.”
He cups my face, gentle but insistent. “Don’t.” The word is simple, but it settles something in me.
He kisses me, this time with no urgency. It’s a slow burn, a confession, a hope. I melt into him, and the need that’s been building all night turns molten.
He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “I want to do this right, Simone.”
I smile gently. “You mean, you want to ask my dad for permission? He’s gone, remember?”
He laughs, but there’s a catch in it. “No. I mean I want you to feel safe. Treasured. I gave you the wrong impression before.”
I blink, thrown by the word. “Treasured?”
He nods, his eyes almost shy. “Yeah. I’m not good at saying it, but I want you to feel like you’re the only thing that matters when we’re together.”
The words crash over me, and for a second, I can’t breathe. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me. Not in a way that felt real.
“Okay,” I whisper, tasting the word like chocolate.
He kisses me again, and this time, I feel it everywhere.
“I already do feel treasured,” I say, when we break apart.
His hands are gentle, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s looking at me.
The air is thick with wanting.
He stands, takes my hand, and leads me upstairs, our footsteps light and slow, like we’re both afraid the spell might break if we hurry.
But there’s nothing fragile about this.
Not now.
Not ever.
The master bedroom is straight out of a magazine: dark wood, a California king with sheets that probably cost more than my car, a single huge photograph of some remote Scottish coast over the headboard.
The room smells like Liam—cedar and something male and musky, like expensive gin—and for the first time in my life I feel small in a way that is not even a little bit bad.
He kisses me at the threshold, slow and searching.
My dress is simple, but he takes time with the straps, the zipper, like he’s undoing a secret.
When I step out of it, I’m naked except for the sheer blue panties I picked to match my mood.
He runs his thumb along the waistband, deliberate, savoring the texture.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, and the words land lower than my stomach.
I undo the top two buttons on his shirt, but he lifts my chin.
“Let me,” he says, voice deeper. He strips for me, slow, then pulls me into his chest. His body is absurd—broad, strong, built for protection or punishment, but never anything in between.
I bury my face in his shoulder and inhale, wanting to crawl inside his bones.
He bends and lifts me like I’m made of nothing, deposits me in the middle of the bed. His mouth is everywhere at once: neck, collarbone, the point where my shoulder meets my throat. I arch into him, greedy, and he smiles against my skin.
There’s no rush this time, no frantic energy.
Every move is purposeful. He teases my nipples with his tongue, then drags his hand down my belly, nails leaving little comet trails of sensation.
He kisses just above my hip bone, then again lower, so that by the time he pulls down my panties I’m ready to beg.
He crawls between my thighs, spreading me wide, and blows a stream of cool air over my pussy.
I’m already wet, embarrassingly so, and he seems delighted by it.
“You’re such a good girl,” he whispers, like it’s a prayer.
“So sweet and open for me. Do you have a hungry cunt, sweetheart? Let me taste.”
He goes down on me with single-minded intent, licking me with long, flat strokes, then circling my clit until I’m whimpering, hands clutching the sheets like I might fly off the bed. His tongue is hot and firm, and when he sucks on my clit, my whole body seizes with pleasure.
But Liam doesn’t let me finish. Instead, he slides a finger inside, then another, crooking them just so. I gasp, and whine a bit.
“Oooh, it’s too much,” I moan, twisting against his digits. “Your fingers are thick.”
“Shhh,” he hums. “You’re so tight, but I’m just stretching you out, baby,” he says. “I love how your vag grabs me.”
He adds a third finger, making me arch my back even more, and the pressure is intense but good. I squirm, half-laughing, half-crying, and he licks his lips before bending to kiss me, tongue still tasting of me.
He keeps finger-fucking me slow and deep, then, without warning, circles my anus with a slick, searching finger. I tense, but his mouth is right by my ear. “Shh, baby. You can take it. You want to, don’t you?”
I nod, breathless. I’ve never done this before, but the way he says it makes me want to.
He goes back to my pussy, fingers pistoning, but all the while, his other hand keeps gently pressing against my asshole, coaxing it open.
There’s no pain, only an aching heat, and soon his fingertip slips inside my most taboo spot.
I moan, loud, and he groans too, like the sound is his favorite flavor of music.
“You like it, don’t you?” he rasps. “You like having an older man’s finger deep in your ass. I can tell that you’re the type of hungry buttslut who’s going to require a buttfucking on a daily basis.”
Oh my god, what is he saying? But the sensation in my ass is delicious and I let out a throaty moan.
“Oh, fuck, Liam—” I gasp, shuddering as he strokes the two spots in tandem. The pleasure is so sharp it almost hurts. I can feel how drenched I am, slick pooling on his hand, and the thought that he’s making me into his perfect slut makes me delirious.
He fucks me like this, one finger in my ass and the other hand working my cunt, until I’m wild with it, crying and mewling while squeezing my own nipples. “Good girl,” he keeps saying, and every time he does, I get closer.
He pulls out just before I come, and rolls me onto my belly, hips in the air. “Stay like that,” he commands, and I do, needy and compliant. He slides behind me, lining his cock up at my entrance, but before he pushes in, he leans over, planting a kiss on the small of my back.
“You ready, Simone?” he asks.
I whimper, “Yes,” and he slides into my steaming vag, slow and steady, filling me to the hilt. He’s huge, and I feel every inch, the stretch perfect, overwhelming.
“Ahhhh!” I cry out, throwing my head back. “Unnnnh!”
“You have such a horny, hungry cunt,” Liam rasps in back of me. “Fuck, my little fuckslut is so wet.”
He thrusts with deliberate care, pulling all the way out and then plunging deep. I can hear how wet I am, every stroke a slick, obscene sound. The bed rocks under us, but I barely notice—I’m lost in the heat and fullness, the sensation of being entirely possessed.
“Ooooh!” is my wordless wail.
He keeps one hand on my hip, guiding me back onto him, while the other snakes around to rub my clit. I shatter almost instantly, the orgasm ripping through me so hard I scream into the pillow. He rides me through it, never stopping, his own breathing wild.
I feel him start to lose control, the rhythm getting frantic, and with a final loud roar, the huge man slams into me deep as his penis pulses, spraying jism all over my fertile fields. But then his roar morphs into a scream, and I turn immediately to look at him over one shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” I gasp.
“Oh shit, I don’t have a condom on,” he says in a panicked voice even as his cock continues to pulse virile jizz into my squeezing pussy. “Oh shit oh shit!”
But I merely back my ass up, so that he can’t pull out.
“It’s fine,” I moan as climax overtakes me again. “You’re safe, Liam. You’re fine. Come in me hard, fast and unprotected. It’s what I want.”
Liam lets out another roar, spurts of hot spunk spraying into my depths.
We moan and pant and cry out, our pleasure twining into an ecstatic haze as we enjoy each other’s bodies to the max.
Finally, Liam slams into me a last time, and then I feel the hot splash inside, his cock twitching as he empties himself fully.
For a second, everything is white noise and rushing blood.
He stays inside, collapsing gently on top of me, arms caging me in. We’re both slick with sweat, chests heaving, bodies tangled.
“Fuuuuck,” he moans. “Goddamn.”
After a minute, he pulls out, and a rush of sticky warmth leaks down my thighs. I flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling in a daze of pleasure.
The handsome man props himself up on one elbow, looking at me like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. He brushes damp hair from my cheek and kisses me, soft and sweet.
“Are you okay?” he whispers. “Did I hurt you?”
I laugh. “More than okay, and no, I’m totally fine.”
He pulls me onto his chest, tucks the comforter around us, and holds me tight. His heart is pounding, but it slows as I stroke his side, mapping every rib, every scar.
We lie there in the dark, the only sound our breathing and the far-off hiss of the house settling for the night.
I could live here, I think. Not in the house, necessarily. But in this moment, on his skin, in the hush between words.
I fall asleep with his arms around me, utterly safe, utterly ruined.
In the morning, I’ll wake with his smell in my hair and his mark on my body. But for now, the night is endless, and we are the only two people in the world.