Chapter Fifteen #2
“Fuck yes,” Dean groans, his voice rough, breathless, cracking with need.
He rocks back into me, the movement making my cock grind right against his sweet spot, and I know he’s close.
My grip on his throat tightens , my other hand anchoring us, and I start pounding harder.
The sound of skin slapping, desperate and relentless, is like music to my fucking ears.
Dean’s body is shaking, his muscles taut, every gasp and moan telling me how close he is.
“Cum for me, Dean, now,” I growl, my voice a broken command.
That’s all it takes—he lets out a deep, shuddering, “Ohhh fuck, Zayn,” his whole body jerking as his orgasm rips through him.
Watching him lose control—the way his muscles tense and shake, the raw sound of his release—drives me wild.
I can feel him clenching around me, his body milking every last drop.
My own release barrels up hard and fast, my balls tightening, my breath catching as I give in, hips stuttering and cock pulsing deep inside him.
I bury myself to the hilt, groaning into his shoulder, the pleasure so sharp and consuming it borders on pain.
I feel every hot spasm, every wave of my cum filling him, body arching as I surrender completely to the moment—lost in the heat, the sweat, the perfect wreckage of us both.
I roll off him and pull him close, our bodies still slick with sweat, our breaths slowly syncing in the quiet aftermath.
I press my forehead to his, fingers tangling in his hair.
“I love you,” I murmur, voice rough but certain—no bravado, just truth.
Dean smiles, his eyes soft, raw, and open in a way I rarely see.
“Love you too,” he says, voice steady but thick with feeling.
For a while, we just lie there—wrapped up in each other, the silence between us comfortable, the world outside fading away.
Ayla
13 years old
It’s Friday. My dad is picking me up from school today.
That’s weird—Mom always does it. Every day, like clockwork.
When I walk up to the curb, Dad’s car is there, engine running, windows rolled up tight.
My stomach sinks, but I tell myself it’s nothing.
I toss my backpack into the back seat, sliding into the front for the first time—finally thirteen, finally "old enough.
" But the air inside is cold, stale with something sour and sharp. My dad stares straight ahead at the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. He doesn’t even look at me.
“Daddy?” My voice is small, barely more than a whisper.
The question trembles at the edge of my throat.
Something is wrong. He feels like a stranger—colder, harder than usual.
At first, he just sits there, face set like stone, eyes fixed forward, impossible to read.
I fidget in my seat, waiting for him to say something, anything.
Then, without looking at me, he says, flat and empty: “Your mom is dead.”
The words hit like a brick, heavy and unreal.
I stare at him, mind blank, the world narrowing to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
He doesn’t soften, doesn’t explain, just shifts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb.
He drives right past the turn for home. My panic spikes.
“Where are we going? What are you talking about? Dad?”
He keeps driving, eyes locked on the road. “Your mom’s dead. Lost control of the car. Went off the highway and rolled down the rocks.” His voice is flat, almost rehearsed, like he’s reading from a script. No grief, no comfort—just cold, clinical fact.
I sit there, numb, devastation threatening to swallow me whole—but a colder, sicker realization creeps in: I’m alone with him now.
My body tenses, every instinct screaming danger.
I stare out the window, watching the houses blur by, my breath turning shallow, my hands gripping the seatbelt so tight my knuckles ache.
“Daddy… where are we going?”
He still doesn’t look at me. His hand leaves the wheel and runs up my thigh—too high, too slow. His voice is flat, almost eager, and it makes my skin crawl. “The castle clubhouse. You’re going to love it.”
The way he says it chills me to the bone. Dread twists in my stomach, sharp and cold—a warning I can’t escape.
I jolt awake to Alex’s voice, his shadow sitting on the edge of my bed. “Ayla,wake up. It’s just a dream.” I’m shaking so hard I can’t breathe, can’t even think. My vision is a blur, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because I’m crying—hot, silent tears streaming down my cheeks.
Alex doesn’t rush me. He just waits, voice soft and steady: “Ayla. You’re safe. You’re here with me.”
He reaches to cup my face, but I flinch, shying away, my voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t touch. Please.” My throat is raw, the words an apology and a plea tangled together, shame and fear burning in my chest.
He doesn’t pull back. He just lets his hands fall open in his lap, palms up. “That’s okay. Can you give me your hands? Just your hands. Trust me.”
My hands tremble as I offer them, still not meeting his eyes. He takes them gently, grounding me, his grip steady and warm. He doesn’t push, doesn’t hurry—just waits, letting me set the pace. “Let’s start here,” he says, voice low. “Tell me what you see, Ayla. Just the basics.”
My eyes flick around the room—anywhere but his face. “My hands. Your hands. The blanket. Your tattoos. The curtains,” I murmur, voice hoarse. As I talk, my breathing slows a little, the panic loosening its grip, the world coming back into focus.
He nods, squeezing my hands. “Good. What do you hear?”
“Your voice. The generator. My breathing.”
“And what can you smell?”
A shaky smile tugs at my lips. “You. Laundry soap. Rain.”
He moves closer, but still gives me space, his eyes never leaving mine.
“That’s right. You’re here. You’re safe.
I’ve got you, Ayla. As long as it takes.
I promise.” His voice is a low, steady anchor, and for the first time since I woke up, I feel my body start to settle—a bone-deep calm that only he seems able to bring me.
Gradually, I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me.
He holds me close, one hand stroking slow circles through my hair, the other holding my hand against his heart so I can feel the steady beat.
“You’re okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
Not tonight, not ever unless you ask me to. ”
There’s something about Alex that makes me feel seen, vulnerable in a way I never let myself be before.
I’ve never wanted to let someone in so badly, never trusted anyone to hold me together.
Right now, I need Alex’s arms, the warmth and strength of him anchoring me after the nightmare.
For once, I let myself relax, letting Alex hold me close, breathing in the quiet reassurance of not being alone.
Just this—just us—until the sun comes up.