Chapter Seventy-One
Ruby
His fingers thread into my hair, and I tug back, not gentle, the sting of his touch grounding me in this moment, this choice, this mistake I'm making with my eyes wide open. He makes a sound against my mouth, desperate, broken, and I feel it everywhere.
“Bedroom,” I manage between kisses, but even as I say it, I know we won't make it. His hands are already under my thighs, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, feel the hard line of his cock pressed against me through too many layers of clothing.
“Can't,” he grits out, and he's carrying me, three stumbling steps, my back hitting the refrigerator, magnets scattering, something ceramic shattering on the tile.
Neither of us looks. His mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, back to my mouth, and I'm pulling at his shirt, his belt, anything to get closer to skin.
We collapse onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs, the old springs groaning beneath us. I land half on top of him, half beside him, and he's already shoving my shirt up, his palms rough against my ribs, my breasts, thumbs dragging over my nipples until I arch into him.
“Ruby.” My name comes out wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”
I don't. I reach between us, find him hard and straining against his jeans, and his hips jerk upward, helpless, uncontrolled. The sound he makes is raw, animal, and I want more of it. I want everything he's been holding back.
I get his belt undone, the button, the zipper, and he's lifting his hips so I can shove them down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and already wet at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, and he groans, head falling back against the armrest, his throat working.
“Condom,” he manages, but his hands are already pulling at my pants, my underwear, dragging them down my thighs until I kick them free. “Fuck. Ruby. I need–“
“I know.” I don't know where my purse is, where anything is, but he's already reaching past me, wallet from his back pocket, tearing it open with shaking fingers.
The latex snaps tight. His hands tremble. The sight of it undoes something in me. Xavier. Controlled, careful Xavier, falling apart because of me. Because he thought he lost me tonight. Because he watched me walk away. Because he couldn't stop it.
I climb over him, knees bracketing his hips, and he's guiding himself to my entrance, the head of his cock pressing, stretching, and I sink, feel every inch of him filling me, the burn of it, the perfect stretch.
We both groan. His head falls back again, throat exposed, and I lean down to bite at his jaw, his neck, anywhere I can reach. He meets me thrust for thrust, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, guiding my rhythm even as I set it.
“Look at me.” He does, his eyes dark, blown, fixed on mine with an intensity that scares me. This isn't casual. This isn't what we agreed to. This is something else entirely, something neither of us will name.
I ride him harder, feel the sofa creaking beneath us, the slap of skin against skin, the wet sound of him fucking me, the way my body grips him like I never want to let go. His hand slides between us, finds my clit, and I cry out, the sound loud in the quiet house.
“Come with me,” he grits out, his thumb circling, pressing, his hips thrusting upward to meet every downward grind of mine. “Ruby. Please.”
The please undoes me. I feel it building, the coil tightening, my thighs shaking, my vision narrowing to the point of his shoulder, the sweat on his forehead, the way he's watching me like I'm the only thing in the world.
I come first, hard, my body clenching around him, milking him, and he follows seconds later, groaning my name, his hips jerking upward, his grip on me bruising, desperate. I feel him pulse inside me, feel the tension drain from his body in waves.
I collapse onto his chest, breathing hard, our sweat slick between us, his heart hammering against my ear. His arms come around me, tight, anchoring, and I don't move. Don't pull away. Don't pretend this is something we can walk away from.
“Stay.” The word is murmured into my hair, and I don't know if he means tonight or longer, and I'm too afraid to ask.
I don't answer. I close my eyes, listen to his breathing slow, feel his arms loosen and then tighten again like he can't decide whether to hold on or let go. Eventually, his breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep beneath me.
I stay awake longer, watching the shadows on the ceiling, feeling him softening inside me, the intimacy of it, the danger of it. I know what this is. I know what it isn't. I know what I want it to become.
I don't say any of it.
I let myself drift off instead, wrapped in his arms, pretending for a few hours that this is enough.