Chapter 8 #3
The change is overwhelming. My head falls back against the pillow, mouth open on a silent scream as he pounds into me. The wet sounds of our bodies coming together fills the room, obscene and perfect. I can feel him everywhere—stretching me, filling me, owning me with each brutal stroke.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. The angle shifts and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside me with devastating precision.
"There!" I cry out, nails raking down his back. "Right there, don't stop—"
He doesn't. He locks onto that angle and drives into me with relentless precision, hitting that perfect spot over and over until I can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel.
Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward from my core, making my thighs tremble and my inner muscles flutter around him.
The tension coils tighter with each impact, a spring wound to its breaking point.
My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending firing at once.
I'm gasping, moaning, making sounds I've never made before.
The wet slide of him inside me, the stretch and fullness, the grinding pressure against my clit with each downstroke—it's too much and not enough all at once.
Sweat slicks our skin. My nails dig harder into his back, probably drawing blood, but I can't make myself let go. I need the anchor. I'm drowning in sensation and he's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
"Come for me," he commands, voice rough and strained. "I want to feel you."
The pressure coils impossibly tight, every muscle in my body tensing as I hover on that razor's edge. His cock drives deep with devastating accuracy. One more thrust. Two. Then—
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me with brutal intensity.
My back arches off the bed, spine bowing as pleasure explodes outward from my core in waves that steal my breath, my vision, my ability to form coherent thought.
My inner muscles clamp down around him in rhythmic pulses, gripping and releasing as my body tries to pull him deeper.
A scream tears from my throat—his name, maybe, or just sound.
I can't tell. White-hot ecstasy floods my nervous system, making every nerve ending sing.
My thighs shake violently. My nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.
The pleasure keeps cresting, wave after relentless wave, and I'm completely at its mercy.
Above me, Thatcher groans deep in his chest. I feel his rhythm falter, his control finally slipping as my clenching heat milks him. His hips stutter, losing that measured precision.
"Gwen—"
Three more deep, powerful thrusts and he's gone.
His control finally shatters completely.
He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock swells inside me.
I feel every pulse, every throb as he comes, heat flooding deep into my core in waves.
His whole body goes rigid above me, every muscle locked tight, corded and trembling with the force of his release.
My name tears from his throat—raw and broken and desperate.
His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise as he holds me in place, keeping himself seated as deep as possible while pleasure crashes through him.
I feel the shudders that wrack his powerful frame, the way his abs flex and release with each aftershock.
His face is buried in my neck, breath coming in harsh gasps against my skin.
I feel the racing of his heart where our chests press together, the slick heat of sweat between us.
He's shaking, this controlled Marine completely undone, and the knowledge that I did this to him sends a final ripple of pleasure through my oversensitive body.
We collapse together, sweaty and spent. His weight pins me to the mattress for a long moment before he rolls to his side, pulling me against his chest. Our breathing slowly evens out, hearts gradually returning to normal rhythms.
Fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. The room smells like sex and sweat and us. Outside these walls, Garrison's out there somewhere. Briggs is hunting. The investigation continues.
But right here, wrapped in Thatcher's arms with his heartbeat steady under my palm, I let myself have this. Just for tonight.
His breathing deepens first, evening into the steady rhythm of sleep. Mine takes longer—body still humming from what we just did, mind cycling through everything that's happened.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Thatcher stirs, reaches for it with one arm while keeping me anchored against him with the other. He squints at the screen in the darkness.
Goes completely still.
"What?" I ask, pushing up on one elbow.
His jaw tightens as he reads. When he looks at me, something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
"They lost her. Garrison slipped through the roadblocks." He sits up, already reaching for his clothes. "And Briggs just pinged a cell tower three miles from here."