Chapter 15 #3
My ribs ache as I shift slightly, but the pain doesn't stop me.
It never has.
Pain has always motivated me.
It's why I loved getting tattoos—the burn of the needle, the way it hurt and felt good at the same time.
Pain is pleasure.
And right now, I want both.
I throw the blanket off slowly, carefully.
My body protests—ribs screaming, muscles stiff—but I push through it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet.
I move toward him, each step deliberate.
One.
Then another.
When I reach the chair, I stop.
Just for a moment.
Just to look at him.
This man saved me.
But why?
Does he want something in return?
He hasn't asked.
But all men are like that, aren't they?
They wait.
They bide their time.
And then they take.
But even as I think it, I don't believe it.
Not about him.
I reach out and touch his face.
My fingertips graze his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath them.
The scruff is coarse, masculine, real.
His eyes open slowly.
Dark.
Intense.
They lock onto mine, and something passes between us.
Something strong.
Something electric.
Something passionate.
Something I can't name but feel in every cell of my body.
I don't say anything.
I just move.
I position myself on his lap, one leg on each side of him, straddling him.
I can feel him already hardening beneath me.
My bare pussy makes contact with his pants, and I'm soaked—the wetness seeping through the fabric immediately.
A sharp breath escapes him.
His hands move.
One lifts to my thigh, his palm warm and rough against my skin, caressing slowly.
The other slides up my back, beneath the t-shirt he put on me while I was healing.
Skin to skin.
His fingers spread across my back, and the heat between us is unbearable.
Our eyes stay locked.
The tension is electric.
"You sure you know what you're doing?" he asks quietly, his voice rough, controlled but barely.
I lean in close, my lips brushing against his ear.
"I have to thank my savior," I whisper.
And then I kiss him.
Hard.
Passionate.
My tongue slides into his mouth, and he responds immediately—his hand tightening on my thigh, his other hand pressing against my back, pulling me closer.
Heat floods through me.
I press my body against his, grinding down, and I can feel my arousal soaking through his pants.
My clit throbs against the hard bulge beneath me.
He groans into my mouth.
His hands grab the hem of my shirt and rip it over my head in one smooth motion.
My breasts are exposed—brown areolas, nipples already hard.
A guttural grunt escapes his throat—a sound of pure need—and it makes me hotter.
He cups one breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth.
I gasp.
He sucks, nibbles, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
I’m naked on his lap
Soaked.
Throbbing.
"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this, Bec's," he growls against my skin.
I freeze for just a second.
*Bec’s. *
Only a few people have ever been allowed to call me that.
But the way it sounds coming from his mouth—rough, reverent, possessive—is almost euphoric.
It means something.
*I* mean something.
He grabs me then, holding me tight, and stands.
He carries me to the bed, my naked body already quivering, my bruises still healing but I don't care.
The pain adds to the intensity.
He sets me down gently—even now, careful—but the dynamic has shifted.
I watch as he removes his shirt slowly, deliberately.
His body is cut.
Built.
Scarred.
Military.
Dangerous.
Every muscle defined.
My breath catches.
Heat rises in my core.
He slides his pants off, and his cock springs free—big, thick, throbbing.
A drop of pre-cum glistens at the tip.
I can't help it.
I get wetter just watching him.
He lowers himself slowly, his hand running over each healing bruise on my ribs, my hips, my thighs.
He kisses them.
One by one.
Like he's worshiping every mark on my body.
"I'm going to show you how much I'll fill your void," he says, and there's a darkness to it that makes me shiver.
I run my hand down his chest as he hovers above me, muscles taut.
Then I reach lower.
I grip his cock—thick and hard in my hand.
Fear rises, but not from him.
From how big he is.
I'm afraid he could hurt me.
But that's what makes me want him more.
I love sexual pain.
A grunt tears from his throat.
He looks down at me, jaw clenched.
"You sure?" he asks again.
I nod with a smirk.
No hesitation.
No fear.
"Yes."
He kisses me then, hard and passionate, his tongue sliding against mine.
And as we kiss, his hand slides down my chest, over my stomach, between my legs.
He slides two fingers into my pussy slowly.
A moan tears from my throat—he's already found my g-spot.
"That's my good girl," he says, voice rough with possession. "Nice and wet, just how I've always wanted to feel you."
He moves his fingers slowly in and out, building the pressure.
I lose my grip on his cock, unable to focus on anything but the sensation.
My hips move against his hand.
"Show me, baby," he demands. "How hot and wet you can get for me."
I begin to moan his name, my body responding.
"You may scare me," I breathe, "but that's what makes me want you more, baby."
His eyes darken.
"You don't know fear yet, baby," he says.
And it's not a threat.
It's a promise.
A promise of everything that's coming.
---
# SILAS
I can feel her tightening around my fingers.
Wet.
So fucking wet.
Her pussy clenches with every stroke, her hips grinding against my hand like she's chasing something she's been denied for too long.
Her back arches off the bed, head thrown back, exposing the long line of her throat.
Bruises still healing on her ribs.
Marks on her wrists.
But she doesn't care.
She's riding my hand like pain doesn't exist.
Like pleasure is the only thing that matters.
I lean in, my mouth finding the curve of her neck.
"Tell me, baby," I growl against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. "What drives you crazy?"
I nibble.
Hard enough to make her gasp.
My fingers curl inside her, hitting that spot again, and her moan is guttural—raw.
I move my mouth down her neck, biting, sucking, tasting the salt of her skin.
Her scent is everywhere.
Arousal.
Sweat.
Something uniquely *her. *
I kiss down to her collarbone, then back up to her ear, my tongue tracing the shell of it before I bite down on her earlobe.
She shudders.
Her pussy floods around my fingers.
"Fuck," she breathes, her voice breaking.
I can feel it—she's right there.
Right on the edge.
Her thighs are trembling.
Her breathing is ragged.
Her nails dig into my shoulders.
I'm about to push her over when—
She grabs my wrist.
Hard.
"Wait," she gasps.
I freeze.
My fingers still buried inside her, her pussy still pulsing around them.
"Bec's?" I ask, confused, my voice rough with need.
She's panting, her eyes half-lidded, glazed with lust.
But there's something else there too.
Determination.
She slowly pulls my hand away, her grip firm.
My fingers slide out of her, slick and glistening.
"I don't want to cum on your fingers," she says, her voice low and breathless.
I stare at her.
My cock is throbbing.
Aching.
I want to take over.
Pin her down.
Make her scream my name until she can't remember anyone else's.
But she's still healing.
Ribs cracked.
Bruises everywhere.
I can't—
Before I can finish the thought, she grabs my arms and *pushes. *
I fall back onto the bed with a grunt, the air knocked out of my chest.
"Bec's—"
"Shh," she whispers, and the sound of it—commanding, sultry—makes my cock jerk.
She leans down and kisses me.
Slow.
Deep.
Her tongue slides against mine, tasting, exploring.
I groan into her mouth, my hands moving to her hips, gripping her bare skin.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark and hungry.
Then she reaches down and wraps her hand around my cock.
I hiss.
Her grip is firm, confident.
She strokes me once, twice, and I can feel the pre-cum leaking from the tip.
She leans down and kisses my chest.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Her lips trail over my pecs, her tongue darting out to taste the sweat on my skin.
She moves lower.
Kissing.
Licking.
Tasting every inch of me.
My abs tense under her mouth.
My hands fist in the sheets.
And then she's there.
Her face hovering over my cock.
Her breath warm against the head.
She looks up at me, her eyes locked on mine, and then she lowers her mouth.
Slowly.
So, fucking slowly.
Her tongue flicks out, licking the pre-cum from the tip.
I groan.
My hips jerk.
She smirks—just a little—and then she takes me into her mouth.
Inch by inch.
Her lips stretch around my cock, her tongue sliding along the underside.
She tastes me.
Savors me.
One hand wraps around the base, stroking in time with her mouth.
The other grips my thigh.
She starts to move.
Up.
Down.
Her mouth is hot and wet and perfect.
I can feel the back of her throat.
She gags slightly, but she doesn't stop.
She pulls back, drool spilling from her lips, and she spits on my cock.
The sight of it—her spit glistening on my shaft—makes me harder.
She uses her hand to spread it, rotating her palm slowly over the tip, her fingers working the sensitive head.
"Fuck," I growl.
My hand moves to her hair, grabbing a fistful.
Not to control her.
Just to *feel* her.
She takes me deeper.
Her mouth moving up and down in a rhythm that's driving me insane.
I can hear the wet sounds.
The slurping.
The way she's drooling on me, using it to stroke me faster.
My mind is racing.
I knew fucking Becca would be incredible.
I've thought about it for months.
Imagined it.
Dreamed about it.
But this—
This is something else.
This isn't just sex.
This is *need. *
I need her.
I need this.
I need her to need me!
She pulls back slowly, my cock sliding from her mouth with a wet pop.
She kisses her way back up my body.
Over my abs.
My chest.
My neck.