Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
DON’T BUST A NUT ON THE GOOD TOWELS
LOUISIANA
Did I strip in record time and shove my panties in his mouth? Fuck yes. Did he moan and lick them? Fuck yeah he did.
Right before he can drag me to the floor and fuck me stupid, I press a hand to his chest and offer a breathless suggestion that makes him pause.
“How about we take this upstairs?” I murmur, eyes locked on his. “I want a new memory to think about every time I step into that bathroom.”
I flash him a crooked grin, wicked and knowing. “Just…don’t bust a nut on the good hand towels.”
His hazel eyes darken instantly—hungry, feral—and the next thing I know, I’m tossed over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, his hand gripping the back of my thigh as he takes the stairs two at a time.
He sets me down on the cold tile like I might break—carefully, deliberately—but there’s nothing gentle in the way his hands linger. The floor sends a jolt through my bare skin, the chill blooming up my spine, grounding me even as heat pulses low in my belly.
His palm doesn’t leave me. It travels—slow and reverent—from the crown of my head, fingers threading through my hair, dragging down until he reaches my chin. He tilts my face up, thumb grazing the edge of my jaw, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to see inside the parts I still keep hidden.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice rough—gravel and smoke. “How’d you fantasize this going?”
That voice wraps around my nerves, slow and insistent, making my breath hitch.
“Fantasize?” I ask, raising a brow like I’ve still got some composure left. I don’t.
His fingers curl a lock of my hair around themselves, winding slow, lazy, possessive. “Yeah, baby. Tell me. I want to hear how you pictured it. What you thought I’d do to you. What you wanted.”
I exhale slowly, the air shaky. My heart’s hammering, my thighs sticky in anticipation of him.
“Well,” I murmur, eyes flicking toward the mirror behind him, “my ass is bruised.”
He follows my gaze, and the shift in him is immediate—his whole body stills, coiled tight. In the mirror, the handprints glow fresh and flushed across the curve of my ass, angry and beautiful in equal measure.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he bites down on it, slow and hard.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty.”
I watch his pupils darken, his breath catch, and I know I have him right where I want him. I reach for the buttons on his uniform, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate, like unwrapping something I’ve waited a long time to deserve.
“Henry Wilder,” I murmur, eyes never leaving his, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret…”
I part the fabric and press my palms to his chest, dragging my nails down the hard lines of muscle, watching the way his massive frame tenses beneath the touch.
“You,” I breathe, “are the fantasy.”
His breath stutters.
I let my nails bite in a little deeper, leaving faint red trails across his skin. His whole body coils, jaw tight, restraint rippling just under the surface. But he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t flinch.
“I love when you're rough,” I whisper, lips brushing the curve of his shoulder as I slide his shirt off. “Not because you always choose to be—but because when I’m with you, I get to let go. I get to surrender, and know you’ll catch me. Every time.”
I step behind him, letting my fingers trace over the ink scrawled across his back—slow, reverent. Like scripture I’ve memorized in the dark.
“The only thing I want you to do,” I murmur, stepping into him until our bodies almost touch, “is bend me over that sink and fuck me until I can’t stand.”
His breath catches, but I’m not done.
“But first,” I continue, softer now, steadier, “I want you to give me some of that weight you carry so fucking effortlessly. Not because I’m strong enough to take it…but because I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
His chest rises like a tidal wave threatening to break—and still, he says nothing. Just listens.
I reach down, unfasten his belt with slow, deliberate fingers, and slide the leather free from his belt loops with a sound that hums in the air between us.
“Hands,” I say, voice like velvet dragged over steel.
A sound breaks from deep in his chest—low, guttural—a moan that echoes off the tile and fills the room with heat.
Then, slowly, he lifts his hands for me, wrists offered like a prayer.
I wrap the belt around them, knotting it snug but not cruel, watching the muscles in his arms twitch as he lets me take the last of his control. Then I hold the tail of the belt up between us.
“Bite,” I command. “Now, pull tight.”
His eyes lock onto mine as he leans in, takes the leather between his teeth, slow and deliberate, the pressure making the veins in his arms strain beneath the skin.
He pulls.
Hard.
His bound wrists tighten with the motion, and he doesn’t break eye contact. Not once.
I nearly come from the sight alone. I step in close and place a gentle hand against his chest.
He lets me guide him without a word, his body moving with mine as I slowly back him into the bathroom door. There’s no resistance. Just the quiet weight of trust, heavy between us.
When his back meets the wood, I run my hands along his arms—slow and deliberate—feeling the strength there, the way he holds so much without ever letting it show.
My fingers find the belt still binding his wrists, and I lift them with care, hooking the leather over the brass hook screwed into the door.
He’s tall enough that it makes his shoulders stretch tight, his chest broad and rising with each slow breath. The muscles along his arms flex slightly with the shift, but he doesn’t fight it. He just watches me.
When I glance up, he’s already looking down.
There’s that smirk—faint, crooked, tugging just at the edge of his mouth beneath his mustache. Not mocking. Not cocky.
Just…his.
I let my hand slide up over my own chest, fingers curling around the curve of my breast until I find the barbell and roll it between my fingertips. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement like it’s the only thing in the room worth looking at.
I give it a slow tug, just enough to make my breath hitch, and his jaw tightens. The muscles in his arms pull against the belt overhead, the hook in the door giving a faint creak under his weight. He doesn’t break free, but I can see it—the urge straining right there beneath his skin.
My other hand finds the twin on the other side, the cool metal pressing into the heat of my palm. I play with both at once, dragging my thumbs over the hardened peaks, letting the ache bloom sharp and sweet while I watch his breathing go shallow.
“You could break this if you wanted,” I murmur, knowing full well the only thing stopping him is me.
His gaze lifts, slow and deliberate, and there’s nothing soft in it now—just that dark, caged hunger that makes my stomach tighten. He stays exactly where I’ve put him, but every line of his body is wound tight like a promise.
I let my hands drift down from my breasts, trailing over my stomach, then lower still until my fingers find the top button of his jeans. His breath catches—quiet, almost unnoticeable—but I hear it.
I take my time, working the button free with a slow twist of my fingers, watching the tension in his jaw deepen. The zipper comes next, metal teeth parting inch by inch in the still air between us.
His hips shift forward—just barely—but it’s enough to make the hook in the door groan again. I glance up at him, letting my hand rest against the sharp line of his hipbone, my thumb brushing the head of his cock.
“You’re so easy to read like this,” I murmur, pressing my palm flat against the front of him, feeling the heat there. “Straining, but not moving. Just waiting for me to decide.”
His eyes never leave mine, but I can feel the restrained force behind them, that caged promise coiled tight in every line of his body.
I slip my fingers beneath the denim, tracing the edge inside, close enough that the muscles in his abdomen jump under my touch.
“Still holding,” I say, soft like a taunt.
My fingers slide deeper, curling around the thick, hot length of him through his jeans, feeling that urgent, straining heat begging for me. His breath goes ragged against the back of my neck, and the hook above us groans as his arms flex hard against the belt.
“Patience,” I murmur, even as I pop his button, drag the zipper down, and shove the denim low enough to wrap my hand around him bare. Thick, hard, already slick at the tip. I stroke him once, slow from base to crown, and his hips twitch forward like his body’s stopped listening to him.
I step forward, turning so my bare back presses to his chest, his cock heavy and hot against me.
Reaching behind, I guide him down, dragging the blunt head through the wet heat between my thighs, letting him feel every slick inch of how ready I am.
Then I press back and sink down on him, slow and greedy, until I’m stuffed full and my spine arches with the stretch.
A sound rips from my throat, shameless and low, as my walls clench tight around him. His bound wrists yank against the belt, but I grind harder, keeping him buried deep where I want him.
“Stay,” I whisper, reaching back and curling my hand around the strong column of his throat. My grip is firm—not choking, just enough to remind him exactly whose pace this is. His groan rumbles under my palm, the vibration sliding through my arm and down my spine.
I start to roll my hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging him through me with every movement.
The thick head catches perfectly, pulling another sharp breath from both of us.
I keep my hand at his throat, my fingers flexing every time his body tries to thrust, forcing him to stay caged inside me.
“That’s it,” I murmur, “Let me give you what you need.”