Chapter Forty-One #2
“Talen.” I cry out, unstoppable, as the world drops away, until there’s nothing left but the relentless throb between my legs, and the feel of him—solid, steady—holding on through every aftershock.
When it’s over, I’m weightless.
Breathless.
Every muscle goes slack, but my heartbeat is still stuttering in my throat like it hasn’t caught up. The room starts to bleed back in, my head drops down, and I find his gaze; his eyes lock on mine, wide and feral.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move—fingers still inside me, buried deep—chest rising heavy against mine, shaking with restraint. And I feel it. The question. It’s not spoken, but it’s there, burning behind his eyes.
Do I want more? Do I want him?
I don’t answer with words. I don’t need to.
I drop my hands to his hips and yank at his shirt, rough, impatient, fingers scrabbling at fabric.
Yes, I want this, you. Now. Fast.
He gets the message, arms up, top off. Then my hands are on him and, fuck. I’ve imagined it. Wondered, dreamed, even. But nothing prepared me for the actual feel of him. Muscle. Bare, unarmored skin under my palms.
Heat slams into me—his mouth back on mine, body pressed close as he lowers me without ever really letting go. The ground barely registers before my hands are at his belt, fumbling, cursing when the clasp won’t give fast enough.
“Seriously?” I growl, yanking harder. “Did you forge this thing shut?”
He huffs against my mouth, teeth grazing my lower lip. “Didn’t think I’d need it off in a hurry.”
He kicks his boots off, and then his hands are at my dress, sliding it down my arms. It slips off one shoulder, then the other, catching on my hips before dropping.
“Fuck, you’re—” he stutters. Eyes flash—gone dark and wild—and then his head dips, tongue teasing the tip of my breast, hot and rough as I finally get his pants undone.
I’m shaking. From need, from the speed. My hands slip against his skin, too desperate, too fast, and I don’t care. I want him naked. I want less space. I want his skin against mine, no barriers, no pause, no restraint.
The last layer of clothing hits the floor, and I’ve got him in my hand before it even settles. Hard, heavy and waiting. His mouth clamps down over the curve of my chest, muffling a deep groan, as I gently squeeze.
“You always this impatient?” He teases against my lips.
“Only when I’m starving.” I smile, wrapping my fingers tighter, but then, without warning, his grip shifts to my ass, and the world tilts.
He lifts and turns me like it’s nothing, walking me backward, his mouth never leaving mine, until the desk catches behind my knees. Then his hand sweeps out—everything on it crashes to the floor in one unapologetic motion—before he sets me down.
The cool wood hits my overheated skin, the edge biting beneath my thighs. I start to shift—legs locking around his waist, hips tilting, but then I hesitate.
The door’s still unlocked. If someone walks in—
I barely finish the thought.
Talen doesn’t even blink. Just flicks his wrist mid-kiss, and Ezzy’s bed screeches across the floor, slamming hard against the door—too loud, too final—and for a second it feels like the whole world knows what we’re about to do.
“Subtle.” I say against his mouth
His lips curve against mine. “Worked, didn’t it?”
I don’t answer. Just drag him closer, palms skimming over the muscles at his chest, then lower. Air snags in my throat as his stomach tenses under my touch, hard and tight. God, I’ve wanted this. Needed it.
He moans—low and rough—hand clamping over mine, holding it there, restraint trembling between us, but his mouth doesn’t let up—tongue sliding in over mine like he already knows how I like it. I meet him, pace for pace. Breathless. Greedy for more.
I break for a second, reaching up, tugging the knot at my hair loose. It spills free, wild and heavy, brushing over my bare skin.
His eyes darken.
“Did I ever tell you, red is my favourite colour?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply—just hooks his hand under my ass and pulls it towards him, arranging me exactly how he wants me. Exactly how I need.
My body follows without question—shoulders dropping, hips lifting—until I’m braced on my elbows, half-lying, caught right at the edge of the table. Right at the edge of him.
Then his hand slips down between us, and without breaking eye contact, he wraps his hand around his cock—guiding it right to where I’m open and aching for him.
The head brushes against me, hot and thick, and my heart stalls, but he doesn’t push, just holds there—his gaze still locked on mine like he’s waiting not for an answer, but for permission.
Everything in me goes still. The noise. The hunger. Even the air between us. It’s just him. Hard, ready, hovering at the edge of me like he belongs there.
“I don’t want soft. I don’t want careful.” I arch my hips as I remind him, the head of him rubbing against me, catching just enough to make us both shudder.“I want this, so stop waiting, and fucking take me.”
He stills for a heartbeat—like he’s giving me one last chance to take it back—but I’m already shifting closer, the slick drag of him against me stealing any thought of retreat.
Then he moves—one hard drive of his hips—and the sound that rips from me isn’t human. My fingers claw at the table, searching for something to hold as he sinks in, deep, deeper, until the air leaves my lungs.
The stretch, the pressure, it's too much and not enough all at once. I shake my head. “More, please...”
“Like this?” he murmurs with a wicked grin, then grinds into me again, harder.
“Fuck—yes.”
My head falls back, hips lifting to meet him as his right hand glides up over my stomach, then higher, cupping my breast. His other hand stays locked at my hip, firm, holding me steady—keeping my body from shifting with each thrust so he can drive in further, over and over, each stroke pulling a fresh gasp from my throat.
“You feel so fucking good,” he grits out. “I’ve imagined this a hundred ways, none of them come close to this.”
I shatter, the fact that he’s thought of this, of having me wrapped around him like this?
It shreds something inside me wide open.
I push up, mouth on his before I can stop myself, my thighs lock tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back, like I need to feel every inch of him or I’ll come apart.
He groans—low, wrecked—and his hands move, sliding up my back until they hook over my shoulders with just enough force to keep me flush against him—so when he moves, there’s nowhere for me to go, nothing between us, just the brutal drag of him deep inside.
God. It feels too good, he feels too good. For a second, the thought terrifies me, but it’s just tonight; it doesn't mean anything more. It’s just sex, just escape.
Just—
His mouth grazes the hollow of my throat, and the thought splinters.
My fingers dig into his skin as I gasp. Every cry torn from me in time with the steady roll of his hips, relentless, slamming in and in.
A crack splits beneath me as the table starts to give, legs buckling. “Shit,” he growls, then he grabs me, spins, and throws me on to the bed like he can’t get me there fast enough.
A quick look to check I'm okay, before his mouth traces lower—heat and ruin, catching my hard nipple with his teeth just as his hips grind down, one long deep thrust. I call out his name as the full weight of him now sinks into me, taking me, consuming me whole.
And the angle the pressure, god. It hits different. It hits everything.
But he doesn't stop, just grinds down deeper, relentless. Again and again.
My legs lock around him, tight—as sharp, desperate pulses of pleasure rip through my body.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Lyra, when you walk into a room, fuck.” He says as he slams back into me.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because right now, I don’t want words.
Just more.
More of him. More of this. More of the way his hard length feels inside me.
As if he can read my mind, his hand shifts, slipping between us, when his fingers find my clit I bite down on a curse as a bolt of pure pleasure rips right through me. White-hot and blinding. Fuck, and then they move, tight circles in perfect rhythm with every roll of his hips.
My back arches. I can’t take it, “More” I cry, voice breaking.
“Thorn, you’re going to fucking kill me.” His voice vibrates through me as he drives back down harder this time, reckless, like control’s gone and all that’s left is instinct.
My toes curl. Heat coils low in my belly, spreading fast—tightening, climbing—until I’m shaking, barely holding on.
But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. He just shifts the angle, pounding deeper—thrusting straight into that spot that makes my vision go white at the edges. His fingers never leaving my clit, same tight, deliberate circles that steal every thought, every fucking ounce of sense.
“Don’t stop... don't stop,” I plead, high pitched, hips rocking desperately against him now, chasing it. Needing it. He meets me, stroke for stroke.
Every nerve in my body is strung too tight. Building and building till I can't take anymore.
Until finally everything breaks, detonates—light, sound, breath
My thighs clamp around him, back bowing, a strangled cry tearing from my throat as my whole body locks around him.
My second orgasm hits like a fist, brutal and blinding, dragging me under, till I can't breathe.
It rips through me so intense that for a moment I forget everything—who I am, where I am. Even pain falls away. Gone in one euphoric rush, like the last seven months have been wiped clean and remade in bliss and pleasure and the goddamn feel of him inside me.
He follows a second later, one final thrust, teeth burying in the curve of my shoulder as his voice breaks on my name, strained, like it’s been pulled from the root of him.