24. Nathan Sr
NATHAN SR
“You took six minutes,” Athena notes without looking up the moment I enter the bedroom.
“You counted,” I chuckle deeply.
“I always do.” She sets the papers aside and finally lifts her gaze. “Shut the door, Nathan.”
I obey because I’d follow that voice anywhere. The rough click of the latch seems indecently loud. She sits up, legs swinging over the edge, and crooks a finger. “Come here.”
“I thought the email was vital.”
“It was,” she says. “I told the editor to wait because my fiancé demands attention.”
That word detonates under my ribs. I stop halfway across the room. “Say that again.”
She stands, the slip falling around her thighs, and closes the distance until we share breath. “Fiancé.” She says it like a threat, like a promise. “You asked. I said yes.”
My heart crowds my throat. On instinct, I reach for her left hand, thumb brushing over the simple ring. The diamond glints against her skin.
“You agreed to marry me,” I murmur, still half disbelieving even though I watched her sign the lease, watched her move into my life piece by piece.
“I did,” she says in that low, dangerous voice. “Now show me why that was the right decision.”
I can’t laugh, can’t do anything except pull her flush against me and crush my mouth to hers.
The kiss is deep immediately, the kind that tastes like years denied.
My hands roam her back, palm the curve of her ass, squeeze until she gasps into my mouth.
The slip bunches under my fingers, satin rubbing my knuckles raw.
She hooks her arms around my neck, arches, and the soft press of her breasts against my chest almost makes me lose the plan entirely.
I step forward, walk her backward until her knees hit the mattress. She falls, pulling me down with her.
“Clothes off,” she says between bites, tearing at the buttons of my shirt like they wronged her.
“I can’t watch you in that slip and still manage buttons,” I mutter, shrugging out of the shirt, letting it fall. She pushes the fabric from my shoulders, fingers skating over the scars along my ribs, reverent and hungry at once.
“Lie down,” she orders.
I obey, falling back against the pillows.
She straddles me, hair falling like ink around her face, eyes heavy-lidded.
“Hold still,” she says, lowering herself until the thin fabric of the slip is the only thing between my skin and hers.
She grinds slowly, deliberately, and I clench my jaw because the friction alone makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“You’re wearing too much.” I hook my thumbs under the straps and tug them down, exposing her breasts. She’s flushed already, nipples pebbled, and I can’t not take one into my mouth. I suck hard, tongue rolling, and she arches with a hiss.
“Say it,” she demands.
“What?”
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I growl against her skin. “And you’re mine.”
“Good.” She slides the slip off entirely, tosses it aside, and continues grinding, skin slick against mine. I grip her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, but she slaps my hands away. “No. Hands behind your head.”
I arch a brow.
“Do it,” she says, eyes flashing.
I lace my fingers behind my skull, biceps flexing, and let her take control. She shifts back, lowers herself until my cock is pressed against her entrance, and rubs the head against her clit with an obscene wet sound. Her head tips back, mouth open, a low moan rolling out. I watch, transfixed.
“Sit up,” I rasp.
She ignores me, continuing the circling, tiny movements that make her whole body shiver, and I realize she’s going to make herself come without letting me inside. The thought sets my blood on fire.
“Fuck, Athena, please…”
“Beg,” she whispers.
“Please,” I manage, the word strangled.
She smiles, wicked, and finally sinks down.
The heat envelops me, tight and wet and perfect, and I groan loud enough to rattle the window.
She doesn’t start riding yet. She just sits there, buried to the hilt, letting me feel every flutter, every stroke of her inner muscles.
Sweat beads on my brow. My hands flex behind my head, but I keep them there because she told me to.
“Move,” I growl when the torture becomes too much.
“Not yet.” She leans forward slowly, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of my head, breasts brushing my chest. Her breath fans my cheek. “You ran from us once. You don’t get to run anymore. Promise me.”
“I promise,” I breathe, sincerity pulling something sharp and soft in my chest. “I love you. I love her. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her expression melts, and she kisses me, deep and soft now, then sits up again. “Then hold on.”
She starts moving. Slow at first, rolling her hips, grinding her clit against my pubic bone. The pace is languid, almost teasing. Each stroke slides heat up my length, and every nerve in my body lights. I hiss through my teeth, fighting to stay still.
She increases the pace gradually, the grinding turning into true riding.
She bounces, faster, ankles digging into my sides, palms flat on my chest for balance.
Her breasts bounce with each movement, hair whipping around her shoulders, and she looks down at me with that mix of hunger and triumph that makes my heart feel too big for my ribs.
“Touch me,” she demands at last.
I drop my hands immediately, grab her hips, and guide her, encouraging. “That’s it. Fuck, yes.”
She tosses her head back, moaning, pace frenzied now. I thrust up to meet her, our rhythm syncing, the bed groaning. She stares down finally, eyes blazing.
“Tell me,” she pants.
“You’re perfect,” I say, voice raw. “You’re my wife—soon—and I want to watch you come on my cock.”
Her lips part. “Again.”
“You’re my wife,” I repeat, the word detonating between us.
She convulses, orgasm surging. She clamps around me, inner muscles milking me, and I feel the slick gush of wetness spill. She cries out, a rough, beautiful sound. I hold her steady, let her ride it out, let her soak me.
Before she collapses, I flip us, pinning her to the mattress. She laughs breathlessly, still shuddering, and wraps her legs around my waist.
“My turn,” I rasp.
“Take it,” she whispers, nails digging into my shoulders.
I drive into her. Deep, hard, relentless.
Her eyes roll back, hands grasping at the sheets.
I don’t hold back. I pound her into the mattress, each thrust a culmination of every night I lay awake imagining this, begging silent air for another chance.
The sound of our bodies colliding is loud, wet, obscene.
I brace one hand beside her head, the other on her thigh, keeping her open for me.
“That’s it,” I praise, voice shredded. “Take me. You’re mine.”
She moans as I slam into her, the pace ruthless.
The wet slap of our bodies colliding fills the room, the headboard creaking under the punishment, my breath tearing out of me in ragged exhales.
She cries out with every thrust, throat raw and gorgeous, eyes locked on mine as if she’s tracing every pulse that slams through my veins.
“Look at me,” I grind out, voice scraped thin. “Look at what you do to me.”
She does. Head tipped back, hair spilled across the pillow, she watches me with blown pupils and a wild devotion she’ll never admit out loud.
I grip the back of her thigh, bend it toward her chest to open her more, and drive in deeper.
She gasps, fingers clawing at the sheets, body arching into mine.
“That’s it,” I praise, heat pouring into every word. “Take my cock, Athena. Make me proud.”
Her body answers before her mouth can. She clenches hard, muscles gripping me like a fist, and the sound that tears out of her throttles me.
I fight to keep control, to keep the pace relentless.
Sweat runs down my spine, drips onto her stomach.
She’s trembling, strung tight. I slide a hand between us, find her clit, thumb already slick with both of us, and rub fast circles.
“Fuck,” she sobs. “Nathan—”
“Come,” I order, thumb pressing harder, thrusts never slowing. “Come on my cock.”
She breaks. It rips out of her like a scream, body convulsing, thighs shaking.
She floods me, drenches the sheets, nails tearing into my back.
I don’t stop. I pound through her orgasm, keep stroking her clit until she’s sobbing with pleasure, until her voice goes wrecked.
Each pulse of her climax drags me closer.
I grit my teeth, release her leg, and pull out abruptly.
“Roll over,” I command, voice a rasp.
She barely manages it before I haul her up, flatten her palms against the headboard, and slam back in from behind.
My hands lock around her waist. The angle is savage and perfect.
She cries out, forehead pressing to the padded wood, and pushes back against me, greedy.
I rock into her, deep and brutal, the bedframe groaning in protest.
“Talk to me,” I growl, leaning over her, chest slick against her back. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, words muffled by the headboard. “I was always yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours. I’m yours, Nathan. I’m yours, Daddy—”
I snarl, slam deeper, jaw clenched. The approval in my voice surprises even me. “Good girl.”
Her answering moan is pure devastation. She shudders, nearly collapsing, and I hook my arm under her belly, dragging her upright. I keep driving, keep praising, keep demanding. “Take every inch. You can do it.”
“Nathan—fuck—”
“That’s right. Give me those sounds. Let me hear how much you missed me.”
“I hate—oh god—I hate how much I love you,” she babbles, voice shredded.
“You love me,” I growl into her ear. “Say it.”
“I love you,” she sobs. “I love you.”
“Again.”
She chokes on it. “I love you.”
It shreds the last thread of restraint. I slam into her, hand sliding around her throat, thumb under her chin. “Ride my hand.”
She obeys instinctively. My fingers find her clit again. She’s sobbing, body twitching with overstimulation, but she bears down on me, takes it, hates it, loves it. I keep going until I feel it—a new wave building, slower, deeper.
“Give me another,” I demand. “Right now. I want you shaking for an hour.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You always can. My perfect girl. My bride.”
She convulses, keens, body spasming so hard she nearly buckles. I hold her up, keep stroking, keep fucking, forcing her through the quake until she screams herself hoarse. The feel of her clamping down again, wet and relentless, finally drags me over the edge.
“Look at me,” I order, pulling out, spinning her around, and shoving her back onto the bed. I drop to my knees, drag her hips to the edge, and slide my cock inside again facing her. I want her eyes when I lose it. I pound deep, fast, already right there, the sensation overwhelming.
“Come with me,” she whispers, fingers clutching my jaw. Her legs wrap around me, heels digging into my lower back. “Come inside. Fill me.”
I groan, animal-deep. “Tell me again.”
“I love you,” she says, fierce and shaking. “I love you. Marry me. Stay.”
I bury myself to the root, grip her face, eyes locked on hers, and let go.
Pleasure explodes, raw and blinding, rippling through every muscle.
I spill into her with a guttural sound that tears my throat.
She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders, eyes staying on mine even as her own orgasm echoes, softer this time but no less sincere.
I pump through the aftershocks, slower now, riding it out, our foreheads pressed together.
The heat of her, the feel of us joined, the slick warmth seeping out—it’s everything I wanted for six years and thought I’d never have again.
When the tremors finally subside, I collapse forward, bracing on my elbows, lips pressed to her jaw. We’re breathing hard, tangled, soaked with sweat. She’s trembling against me, but her hand slides into my hair, fingers curling.
“We’re really doing this,” she breathes, a shaky laugh in her voice. “We’re engaged.”
I lift my head, brush her mouth with mine. “We are. I’m never letting go.”
She smiles, dazzling and tired. “Promise?”
I nod, solemn. “Until I’m dust.”
She laughs, tears in her eyes, and kisses me again, slow and deep. I stay inside her, sunk to the hilt, both of us clinging like we survived a night that nearly tore us apart.
In the space between breaths, between the hammering of our hearts and the fading echoes of our moans, I murmur against her lips, “I love you.”