27. Cat #2
“The second chance. It’s granted.” I reach up and cup his face in my hands.
“I forgive you. For real this time. Not because you took a bullet for me. Not because you’ve been perfect during recovery.
Because you saw what you did wrong, and you actually changed.
Because you’ve been showing up every single day since you found me, even when I pushed back. ”
“You didn’t push back that hard.”
“I pushed back plenty hard. You just kept showing up anyway.”
“I didn’t know how else to prove I meant it.”
He catches my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles, and the teasing goes quiet for a second.
“You proved it. Over and over. And now I’m telling you: I forgive you. I love you. And if you ever lock me out like that again, I will make your life extremely unpleasant.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
He pulls me closer, careful of the belly between us, and kisses me like the word granted is oxygen and he’s been drowning.
It starts soft, tender, careful. Then it deepens, his hands sliding into my hair, and I’m pressing against him with a desperation that surprises us both.
“Wait,” he breathes against my mouth.
“I don’t want to wait.”
“The baby-”
“Is fine. I’m fine. We’re both fine.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. Just let me lead.” I pull back to look at him. “Let me take care of you for once.”
His face eases. Trust, maybe. Surrender.
“Okay.”
I lead him to the couch, push him gently down onto the cushions.
He goes willingly, looking up at me with an expression I’ll remember forever, wonder, gratitude, love so overwhelming it’s almost painful to witness.
The word granted is still ringing in the room like a struck bell.
Karaoke forgiveness, ridiculous and perfect in equal measure.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “God, Cat, I missed you so much.”
“I’m right here.”
“I know. I’m never letting you go again.”
“Good. Because I’m about to sit on your lap and if you vanish mid-ride I’ll consider it a breach of contract.”
His mouth quirks. “Breach of-”
“Shh. Injured men who just got forgiven don’t argue with the terms.”
I straddle him carefully, knees in the couch cushions, belly filling the space between us like a soft planet.
His bandage shows above his collar, fresh enough that I keep my hands clear of it when I frame his face and kiss him slow.
He opens for me immediately. His hands find my hips, then slide to cradle the underside of my stomach, always, always that gentleman check-in.
“This okay?” he asks against my lips. “Weight on your knees? Pressure-”
“My knees are champions. Your job is to sit there and let me ruin you politely.”
“Politely?”
“I’m flexible on politely.”
I grind down against the hard line of him through our clothes and watch his head tip back against the couch.
A groan escapes. I do it again, slower, savoring the power of being the one who leads after months of being shut out.
His fingers flex on my belly. I shift my weight and catch the breathless laugh he tries to hide.
“You look very pleased with yourself,” he says.
“I am. Shirt off, yours. Careful of the gauze.”
Between us we get his shirt open and shed.
I map the uninjured parts of his chest with my mouth: collarbone, sternum, the flat of his nipple until he twitches.
When I reach for his belt he lifts his hips to help, and I free his cock with a reverence that lasts exactly two seconds before I stroke him filthily from root to tip, spreading the wetness beading there.
“Fuck. Cat-”
“Color?”
“Green. Blinding green. Please.”
I shove my own underwear aside under my dress, no patience for a full striptease when forgiveness is still warm on my tongue, and sink down onto him in one long, controlled slide.
The stretch wrings matching sounds out of both of us.
Full. Deep. His hands fly to my waist, then immediately back to supporting my belly as I start to move.
“Look at you,” I pant, working myself down onto him. “Shot, bandaged, and still this hard for me. Pathetic. Perfect.”
“I’ll take pathetic.” His voice is wrecked. “I’ll take anything you call me as long as you keep, ah, doing that.”
“This?” I squeeze around him on the downstroke. “Or this?” I lean forward carefully, brace on the couch back clear of his wound, and grind my clit against his pubic bone until sparks shoot up my spine.
“Both. All of it. Christ. Your mouth when you’re mean-”
“You like me mean.”
“I like you everything: mean and soft and forgiving and unhinged. Especially unhinged.”
I ride him in earnest then, keeping my movements slow enough not to jostle his injured side, but deep, filthy rolls that make the couch creak a rhythm. Sweat gathers between my breasts. His thumb finds my clit and rubs, clumsy with need, perfect anyway. I slap his hand away gently.
“No. I’m leading. Hold my hips and take what I give you.”
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
“Tell me what you want to hear.”
“Tell me I’m yours. Tell me filthy things. Tell me you’ll use me like this whenever you want and I’ll thank you for it.”
I laugh, dark and delighted, and lean in close enough that my lips brush his ear. “You’re mine. This cock is mine. I’m going to come on it, and then you’re going to fill me while you hold me, and afterward you’re going to say thank you like a man who understands pardons are renewable but not free.”
“Thank you,” he gasps, already ahead of schedule. “Thank you, Cat, I’m-”
“Not yet.” I slow down on purpose, torturing us both, lifting until he’s almost out and then sinking again with devastating patience.
His thighs shake under me. The bandage pulls taut when he forgets himself and flexes; I press two fingers to his uninjured shoulder as a reminder. “Stay still. Let me work.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re hard. Relationship of mutual benefit.”
I pick up the pace again when his breathing turns desperate, chasing my own orgasm with selfish little circles of my hips, using him exactly as promised.
His hands steady my hips. When I come, it’s with a broken moan I bury in his neck, pulsing around him in waves that drag him to the edge and hold him there.
“Now,” I breathe. “Come. Give it to me. You’ve earned this much.”