Chapter 32 - Donovan #2
“That’s it,” I growl, fingers curling at the back of her neck. “Take every inch. Every goddamn inch. This is what you begged for.” Then I thrust.
I bury myself in her with one unforgiving thrust. I swear I see heaven. Or hell. Doesn’t matter, I’m not leaving either without her.
She arches beneath me, crying out, her pussy gripping my cock like she doesn’t want to let go. Heat. Pressure. Fucking surrender. All of it, mine.
My right hand grips her hip—my left slides up—slow, commanding—until my fingers wrap around her throat. My wedding ring presses to her throat, claiming her air like it’s mine to give.
She gasps, and fuck—hearing her choke against my fingers goes straight to my cock.
“Fuck, baby,” I breathe against her shoulder, my voice wrecked. “You see this view? Anyone could look up and see you like this—see how perfect you are—how your pussy weeps for me, dripping and desperate, shining when I’m buried deep where I fucking belong.”
A shudder runs through her spine, and a loud moan breaks free—dragged straight from her soul.
“You like that, Stella?” I growl, hips slamming forward again. “Like being fucked where anyone could see? You like being up here—put on display—so they can all watch the way I worship every inch of your perfect fucking body?”
My grip tightens around her throat as I lean in, voice nearly gone.
“You like showing everyone you’re my good fucking girl, Stella?” Her hands brace hard on the railing, white-knuckled and shaking, back arching, aching for more.
“You’d let them watch, wouldn’t you?” I whisper, hips driving deeper. “Watch me worship you—watch the way you take me, the way you ruin me.”
“Yes,” she chokes out. “Let them see how I take you—how I fall apart for you. I’m your good girl. Fuck, I love being your good girl.”
That’s all I need.
I drive into her again and again, every thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. Her body jolts against the rail with each stroke, gasping my name on every breath.
“You’re mine, Stella. Every goddamn perfect part of you is mine.” I growl, my voice feral now, barely hanging on.
“You feel that? Every fucking inch belongs to you. Every inch I have—every inch I am—only ever belongs to you.”
She tries to nod—but my hand is still at her throat, my cock still buried so deep inside her I swear I can feel her heartbeat on my skin.
And mid-thrust, it breaks out of me—hoarse, wrecked, true confession:
“Damn it, Stella. You wanted me to fall—so I fucking jumped. No hesitation. Surrendered. Ruined. Feral. Yours.”
And then she starts to come—tightening around me, gasping out my name in a voice so wrecked I swear it brands me.
I don’t hold back.
I slam into her once more and come with her—groaning into her neck, body trembling.
This isn’t making love to my wife.
It’s possession.
It’s reckoning.
I hold her close as I empty into her, like I’m spilling my soul where it belongs—at her altar.
We collapse onto the balcony floor, breathing hard, tangled in sweat, love, and something much darker.
My hand eases from her throat, and I kiss her tenderly where my hand just was.
I pull her into my lap, holding her against my chest. Her head rests over my heart.
“You’re perfect, Stella,” I murmur, kissing the crown of her head. “So fucking perfect. I’m so fucking lucky I get to call you my wife.”
Stella and I didn’t take a honeymoon. It wasn’t something she wanted to rush, not with my job and her coursework hanging over us. She wanted time. Space. A moment to breathe instead of trying to celebrate on a ticking clock.
We eased back into our daily routine. I ride my motorcycle to school—the weather’s beautiful most days—and I leave the car here for Stella. That’s the one thing she missed most: having her own wheels.
She tried to be responsible about it. The school’s just a few blocks away, and everything else is within walking distance. She didn’t want to buy a car just to let it sit.
We spent the whole weekend curled up on the couch watching movies. Popcorn. Candy. Sodas. The whole nine yards. Ansel and Theo joined us for one or two before sneaking off into her room—again.
Theo’s been over nearly every night since the wedding, and I’ve never been more thankful for a split floor plan.
Monday rolls around. I kill my blaring alarm, stand, and stretch. Look over.
Stella’s still asleep on her stomach—hair tangled, lips parted slightly. She’s fucking magical.
I shower fast and throw on my usual: slacks, a dress shirt—teacher starter pack.
I lean down, press a kiss to her shoulder. Her arms snake around me. “I love you, Star. I’ll see you after work.” She kisses me back and rolls over, half-asleep.
Her and Ansel’s classes are on break; unfortunately, mine’s not for another two weeks. We’ll each get a week off—separately.
After work:
I come home, drop my keys on the entry table. Soft music’s playing from the bedroom, paired with giggles. Familiar.
I head into the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and walk toward the open bedroom door.
Stella’s perched on her art stool, a canvas propped in front of her. Ansel sprawled across our bed, and from the speakerphone, I’m guessing Blythe’s the one yapping.
“Stellllla… his hand was around your throat?” Blythe’s voice is shy, almost scandalized. “Isn’t that scary? What if you can’t breathe?”
Stella dips her brush into a pale bluish-white and swirls it gently across the canvas. “Blythe,” she says calmly, like they’re discussing grocery lists, “it’s not scary. It’s sexy. It’s… intense. Erotic.”
I should announce myself.
But I don’t.
“The feeling of his hand wrapped around your throat?” she continues, dragging her brush through sea foam. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about claiming. That possessiveness? The trust? It was the best fucking orgasm of my life.”
She says it like she’s describing a cup of tea. Like my sex life is just another shade of sunset in her ocean skyline.
“I could never,” Blythe breathes. “Sinclair would never.”
Ansel giggles. “Sinshine, are you clutching your pearls over there?”
Stella laughs. “Be nice, Ansel. Not everyone likes the same kind of sex. As long as she’s getting standing O’s, that’s what matters.”
She switches brushes, dipping into peach, sweeping it across the skyline.
“Hey Stella,” Ansel teases, “tell Blythe about the time you gave Donovan a hand-necklace.”
My eyes widen. Oh, fuck. She told Ansel that.
“Ansel!” Stella yells, tossing a clean brush at her. “You can’t just blurt out my sex life.”
“Wait,” Ansel says in a gasp, “Stella… did he call you Daddy when you were dominating him? Or did he call you mommy instead?”
I clear my throat from the doorway.
“Evening, ladies.”
They freeze like they’ve been caught stealing from the altar.
“How about we go out to eat tonight?” I add casually. “Blythe, you’re more than welcome to join us.”