Chapter 42
WILLOW
Oh.
My.
Shit.
My body doesn’t even recognize itself anymore.
Never in all my life have I ever come with a man’s finger in my ass.
I didn’t know pleasure could bend like this—coil tight and then snap, white-hot and merciless. I didn’t know my body had places that could be unlocked, rewired, claimed.
No one has ever touched me there.
Not like that.
Not the way Thatcher does.
It’s not even something I thought I would like.
It never came up. And really, I never thought about it much.
But with Thatcher? There is no end to what I want to do with him.
No limit to the things he makes me feel.
He touches me with certainty. With the kind of confidence that makes my instincts go feral and my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
I’m breathless, trembling, wide open in every possible way, and I don’t feel exposed.
With him, there’s no shame. No hesitation.
I feel powerful.
Uninhibited. Sexy. Wanted.
Unapologetically so.
Maybe it’s just him.
Maybe it’s us together.
And the way he makes my body sing like it’s been waiting its whole damn life for this moment?
Yeah, that’s the key, because I know he’s different. Special. Mine.
His hands spread me wide, reverent and rough all at once.
The stretch burns—but it’s delicious. It’s right.
My body arches instinctively, begging before my mind can catch up.
And I know I’m right—I was made for this. For him.
“You ready?” he growls, low and dangerous, like the sound alone could undo me.
I nod because words are useless now. Because my body already answered.
Then, he rams into me in one powerful motion, pushing inside and stretching my walls to their limit—and I cry out.
Not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. Of him. Of this.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t retreat.
He claims.
Every movement deliberate.
Every thrust driving the truth deeper.
I’m his, and he wants me to know it.
My hands scrape over his skin—hard muscle, warmth, strength—until I clutch at him like an anchor. Like I’ll float away if I don’t.
He’s everywhere.
Sensation crashes through me in waves, too much and never enough all at once.
My body responds like it was built for this. For him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent. “So damn beautiful when you come apart for me.”
I’m so close.
“I wanna see my cum on your skin, Baby. I wanna mark you with me.”
My eyes go wide.
My pussy squeezes him.
Because, yes, I want that, too.
“Yes, please, yes.”
“You there?” he asks again.
His cock throbs inside of me, his thumb glides over my clit.
Then, I shatter.
And while my body is climaxing, I watch as Thatcher pulls out of me, takes his thick cock in hand—one stroke, two—then hot cum floods from the tip and lands on my sex, my belly, my tits.
And my one orgasm turns into two.
Whatever this is, I know it’s not just sex.
It’s something else.
It’s connection.
Possession without fear.
Desire without apology.
Something deep and dangerous and real.
Something that feels a whole hell of a lot like love.