Chapter 22 – Lena
chapter
twenty-two
Lena
Sex fog. That was the only explanation.
That was the only explanation. I'd woken up in the middle of the bed, the kind of bed that swallowed you whole, blackout curtains holding the room in a blue-gray hush while Chicago traffic hummed sixteen floors below.
And Trace's big body was wrapped around me like he was afraid I'd evaporate in the night again, his legs tangled with mine, one heavy arm locked around my waist, his hand cupping my breast like he'd won it as a prize and he planned to keep it.
Part of me had wondered if it was all a dream. But that was definitely his morning erection pressed against my ass, his breath warm against my shoulder, and no dream had ever been that insistent.
He rocked his hips against me, slow and lazy, and the friction alone made my breath catch. His hand slid from my breast to my hip and pulled me tighter against him, and I could feel him growing harder by the second.
"Don't move," he murmured against my neck, and then he was reaching past me to the nightstand. The foil tore loud in the quiet room. I listened to him roll it on behind me, the snap of latex, a low exhale, and then his hand was on my thigh, lifting it just enough to open me up.
He pushed inside from behind, slow and deep, and my fingers curled into the sheets.
The stretch was everything — that full, aching pressure that made my eyes roll back and my mouth fall open against the pillow.
He groaned against the back of my neck and held still for a second, just buried in me, one hand gripping my hip, the other taking two of mine and holding them just above my head
"Fuck, Lena." His voice was destroyed — barely awake and already wrecked — and that did something to me I couldn't name.
He started to move in long, unhurried strokes that rocked us both deeper into the mattress, his chest pressed to my back, his mouth on my shoulder, his hand sliding between my legs to hold me against him and play with my clit.
The angle was perfect — every thrust hit deep and made my toes curl. My clit throbbed, desperate for release, but he insisted on slow lazy circles not the firm grind I needed. With my hands in his, I couldn’t do anything but take what he was giving me.
"You want to tough yourself, don’t you?" he growled in my ear, adjusting his angle slightly. “You don’t like it when I tease.”
“Trace please.”
He retreated, then slid all the way home in one smooth stroke, making me gasp.
“I Want to feel you come on my cock."
“Trace I need…please…”
He groaned into my neck. “God, you are so fucking tight baby. I woke up and thought maybe I’d dreamed it all again. I should have asked if you were sore. Is my pussy sore, baby?”
His maddening pace had me just on the edge. “Please, please, please.”
He released my wrists. “Okay baby, how my again how you like it.
My hand flew between my legs, fingers finding that swollen bundle of nerves and sliding with his. The first touch made me gasp. I was soaked. Our fingers slipped easily over my clit in tight circles that matched his rhythm. Funny with my help, he could find the exact rhythm he knew I liked.
"That's it," he breathed, his thrusts getting harder, deeper. "Such a good girl, touching that pretty pussy for me."
The dirty talk should have made me blush, but instead it wound me tighter, made me rub faster. I was close already, had been since he'd first pushed inside, and the combination of his cock filling me and our fingers on my clit was pushing me right to the edge.
"Trace," I whimpered, "I can't—"
"You know how I feel about that word," he commanded, his teeth grazing my ear. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel that tight little cunt squeeze my dick."
That was all it took. The orgasm slammed into me like a freight train, my whole body seizing up as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me. I cried out into the pillow, my walls clenching around him so hard it almost hurt, my fingers still working my clit to draw it out as long as possible.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Trace groaned behind me, his rhythm faltering as I pulsed around him. Then suddenly he was pulling out, leaving me empty and still shaking.
Before I could protest, he rolled me onto my back, my legs falling open bonelessly. The room spun a little as I watched him tear the condom off with shaking hands. He wrapped his fist around his cock — slick and rock hard — and stroked himself fast and rough.
"Want to mark you," he growled, positioning himself between my spread thighs. "Want to see my cum all over this perfect pussy."
I should have been embarrassed by how exposed I was, but I wasn't. I was still floating, still trembling from my orgasm, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he worked himself over me.
"Look at you," he rasped, his gaze locked between my legs. "So fucking wet for me. So open."
His free hand gripped my thigh, holding me spread wide as his strokes got faster, more erratic. I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his abs clenched, and I knew he was close.
"Please," I heard myself whisper, though I wasn't sure what I was begging for.
That broke him. With a guttural groan, he came hard, painting thick white stripes across my swollen pussy. The heat of it made me gasp, and I watched, mesmerized, as he milked every last drop onto me, marking me exactly like he'd promised.
We both stayed frozen for a moment, him kneeling between my legs, chest heaving, me sprawled out and covered in his release. Then he reached down and ran his thumb through the mess he'd made, spreading it over my sensitive flesh.
I winced when he brushed over my clit, too much, too sensitive, and immediately he pulled his hand away.
"Too much?" His voice was soft, concerned.
I nodded, unable to form words yet.
"Let me make it better," he murmured, and before I could ask what he meant, he was sliding down my body, settling between my thighs.
"Trace, what are you—"
The first swipe of his tongue cut off my question.
He licked a long stripe through his own release, cleaning me with slow, deliberate strokes that had me gripping the sheets.
My oversensitive clit throbbed with each pass of his tongue, the sensation riding that knife's edge between too much and not enough.
"Shh," he soothed against my skin. "I've got you."
He was thorough, methodical, licking every trace of himself from my folds. His tongue was gentle where I was swollen and sensitive, firm where I could take it. When he sucked my clit into his mouth, so softly, barely any pressure, I whimpered and my hips bucked involuntarily.
"So sweet," he murmured between licks. "Even covered in my cum, you taste so fucking sweet."
His words sent another shiver through me, even though I was completely spent. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed as he continued his careful attention, his hands holding my thighs open when they tried to close from oversensitivity.
"Can't believe you let me do that," he said between gentle licks, his voice full of wonder. "Let me come all over you like that. Fuck, Lena."
I couldn't respond — could barely breathe as he worked me over with his tongue, cleaning every fold, every crease. When he finally pulled back, my pussy was gleaming with his saliva instead of his release, and the cool air against my wet skin made me shudder.
He crawled back up my body, his weight settling over me, and kissed me deep. I could taste myself on his tongue, mixed with the salt of him, and something about that intimacy made my chest tight.
"Better?" he asked against my lips.
"Mmm," was all I managed, my arms coming up to wrap around his neck.
He rolled us so I was draped across his chest, my head tucked under his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my spine as our breathing slowly returned to normal.
This man was going to kill me and I was going to let him, and thank him, and probably write him a five-star review.
I shifted to test whether my legs still worked, and his arm curled around my waist before I made it an inch.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice had gone scratchy again, half-asleep and half-smug, and I felt it low in my stomach before my brain caught up.
"Nowhere. But we do have to go. I wanted to look in on Mom, remember?"
He nuzzled into my neck, lips grazing below my ear. "Of course I remember." His mouth dragged slow along my pulse before he added, "Just wanted to make sure you weren't trying to run away from me."
Run away? From this? Sir, I could not physically flee if I tried.
"Even if I wanted to, I hardly think I could walk."
"Is my angel still sore?"
I shook my head. “Not after that. But if you go for round three, I might actually die."
He laughed against my neck, warm and rumbling, and I could feel the shape of his grin pressed to my skin — smug bastard, zero remorse — but I did love the way he kissed.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror — braids wrecked, a mark blooming on my collarbone that had no business looking that pretty — and pressed my fingers to the hickey and grinned like an absolute idiot.
Once we made it down to the restaurant, I was walking slightly bowlegged in a way I prayed no one noticed.
The hostess seated us at a corner booth with a lakefront view — the kind of table you got when the staff recognized your last name — and Trace ordered everything on the menu that was mildly breakfast-related.
The waiter didn't blink. Coulter money did that — made excess look casual.
"I'm not sure how much you think I eat, but this is too much."
He shook his head around a bite of bacon, then held the strip out to me and nudged it toward my mouth until I took a bite.
Smoky and rich, nothing like the dining hall turkey bacon I'd trained myself to tolerate.
His knuckles were still scabbed over from hitting Matt, re-taped today with fresh white tape, and the sight made my stomach twist — he kept getting hurt because of me and acting like it was nothing.