Chapter 11 #2
My hand brushes her sweater’s hem. I murmur, low, gruff: “Can I?”
She nods. Slow, sure. Lifts her arms for me without a word.
I peel the sweater up, drag it over her head, and the second it’s off—fuck.
I stall.
I’m staring, and I don’t even try to hide it.
That simple white bra clings to her tits like a second skin, and it hits me like a gut punch.
No frills. No lace. Just plain cotton, hugging all that soft, heavy perfection.
And yeah, I noticed before—hard not to. But now?
Nothing between me and the full view? It’s different.
Real. Too damn pretty to be casual about.
Those tits strain against the fabric like they’re trying to break free.
Full and round, soft enough to make my palms itch just thinking about holding ’em.
Her nipples are already outlined through the thin cotton, stiff and begging, and she’s breathing hard, her chest rising like she’s waiting on a verdict.
And shit, she’s nervous.
I see it in the way her arms twitch like she might cross them over her chest again, like she’s been looked at before and it never felt like this. Like she’s bracing for someone to flinch. To judge. To dismiss.
But not from me.
Not ever.
I toss the sweater and monitor aside without looking, eyes locked on her like they’re glued there. Step in closer. Let her see how gone I am.
“Damn,” I mutter, voice scraping low in my throat. “You’re so fucking pretty, baby.”
Her breath catches, lashes fluttering just a little. She doesn’t say anything, but her mouth parts like she’s surprised I mean it. Like she hasn’t heard it that way before.
So I say it again.
“You’re killing me right now. Just—look at you.”
My hand comes up slow, rough fingers dragging the side of her breast, thumb brushing the curve that swells out of the cup. I don’t even take the damn bra off yet—I just need to touch. Feel the heat of her, the softness.
“You don’t need a single thing on you,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles just under the band, dragging along the seam of fabric pressed tight against her ribs. “No lace, no wires, no bullshit. You in this beat-up cotton? It’s hotter than anything I’ve ever seen.”
She blushes, tries to hide a smile, but I catch it. And it does something to me—something deep, primal. Makes me want to earn that smile a hundred more times.
My hand flattens, cups one tit gently over the bra.
Warmth spreads through my palm like a live thing.
I give her a little squeeze and feel the give of her, the way her body responds like it’s been waiting to be touched.
My thumb brushes over her nipple through the cotton—slow, teasing—and her whole body shifts, chest arching into me like it’s instinct.
“You feel this?” I ask, voice rough. “Feel how good you fit in my hands?”
She nods, breathing faster now, but her eyes are on me. Watching. Wanting.
And then I lean in, close enough to breathe her in—warm cotton and skin, clean sweat, something sweet that’s just her. My mouth hovers over that perfect swell, and I don’t wait long. I dip my head, wrap my lips around her nipple right through the fabric, and suck.
Soft, steady, wet.
She gasps—mmmnh, soft and pretty, breath catching like she didn’t expect it to feel that good. Like it surprised her.
That sound goes straight to my dick.
I kiss along the curve of her tit, open-mouthed, dragging my tongue across the cotton, then pulling back just enough to blow warm air over the damp spot I left.
Her nipple tightens under the wet fabric, straining now, begging for more contact, more anything.
My hand’s there too, palming the other breast, kneading slow, thumb grazing that pebbled tip.
I don’t rush. I watch.
Because this isn’t about what I like. Not yet. This is about reading her. Learning her. Mapping out every little twitch and shift and sound, cataloguing what makes her melt, what makes her tense, what she wants even if she doesn’t say it out loud.
I keep kissing, licking, sucking—teasing the nipple through the cotton, letting the wet patch grow.
I rake my teeth gently across it, just enough to test, to see.
Her back arches off the bed and she makes this noise, kind of like a moan, kind of like a choke.
Her thighs shift restlessly under me. Her fingers curl into the sheets.
It’s working.
But I don’t push further. Not yet.
Because here’s the thing—I know myself. Always been the guy who goes in hard.
Who likes it filthy. I like hearing them moan when I twist their nipples, when I bite down hard enough to leave a mark.
I like the hair-pulling, the sounds they make when they come with my hand around their throat.
That messy, no-holds-barred kind of sex where control’s a thread and you yank it til it snaps.
But Lizzie—she told me flat-out she hated that shit. Not at first. No, at first she pretended. Moaned just loud enough, let me tug her around until one day she dropped the act. Told me I was rough. Too rough. That it wasn’t sexy, it was selfish.
Said her new guy—clean cut, “respectful,” “attentive”—was a better fuck because he was gentle.
And fuck, maybe she wasn’t wrong. Maybe I was so caught up in my own pleasure I didn’t leave room for hers. Even though I always made sure she came.
That shit’s been rolling around my head ever since.
But Brielle—she’s different.
Not just because she’s softer, quieter, more careful. But because she’s been through it. She let slip once, real casual, that her ex was rough too. But not in the way I mean. Not playful. Not consensual. Violent. Controlling. Maybe even cruel.
I’d kill that asshole if I could.
And now she’s here, with me, half-naked on my bed, letting me touch her, trusting me with her body—and I’m terrified of being the next guy who gets it wrong.
So I slow it down.
I go back to kissing, just kissing. Her breast, the soft dip between, the slope of her ribs. My hand stays open, wide, warm across her side. No grabbing. No pinching. Not yet.
Just enough pressure to let her know I’m here.
I lift my head, look at her.
Her eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, hair wild against the pillow. But there’s no fear in her face. Just heat. Curiosity. Want.
“You good?” I ask, voice quiet but thick with grit. “Need me to slow down?”
She shakes her head, breathes, “No. It’s good.”
But still—I keep it steady. I don’t chase the rush, don’t reach for more. I give her time to want it.
Because the last thing I ever wanna do is make her feel used. Like she’s back in a place where her voice doesn’t matter.
And yeah—maybe I wanna be rough.
But not if she doesn’t want it too.
I kiss her again, right over her heart, slow and steady, letting her feel just how much restraint I’m working with.
Not because I’m unsure—not even close—but because she matters.
Because she’s not some faceless hookup I can rail and forget, not someone I can shove around without a second thought.
She’s warm under my mouth, her skin flushed, her breath shaky, but steadying—trusting.
My hands are wide on her ribs, thumbs brushing the outer curves of her breasts. Not grabbing. Not claiming. Just holding. Letting her feel the strength in me without the weight of it. Letting her choose if she wants more.
And then she breathes it—whines it, sweet and needy.
“I wanna see you too…”
Her voice does something to me—fuck, it slides right down my spine and punches low, like she’s plucking a string only she knows how to play.
And her hands—God, those little hands—come up to my shirt, her fingers curling around the hem, not yanking, not demanding. Just asking. She wants this. Wants me. And it’s not just about seeing skin—it’s about leveling the field. Making this even. Vulnerable.
I look down at her, and she’s all flushed cheeks and parted lips, that wide-open kind of want that hits harder than anything filthy ever could. It’s not performative. It’s not about putting on a show. It’s honest. Real.
“You sure?” I rasp, voice thick with heat, my own hands twitching against her ribs, itching to tear everything off and press her down into this mattress ’til we’re nothing but sweat and breath and need.
She nods, eyes already hooded, but they’re locked on mine. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I wanna feel you too.”
And that’s all I need.
I sit back on my knees, dragging my shirt up and over my head, and her eyes track every inch of skin I expose—chest, shoulders, arms, all rough-cut muscle and the scars that’ve stuck around through years of work and grit.
I’m not pretty. Never have been. Broad, blunt, built from a life that doesn’t leave much time for the gym but still demands strength.
Old burn on my left side from a welding torch.
Scratch from a fall off scaffolding. Collarbone that healed a little crooked after a bar fight I don’t talk about anymore.
But her eyes don’t flinch.
She drinks me in.
Her gaze is hungry. Curious. Like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to want this much.
“You’re…” she trails off, blushing, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel like I’m worth being looked at. “You’re big.”
I smirk, one corner of my mouth kicking up. “Yeah? That a problem?”
She shakes her head too fast. “No. Just— wow.”
That makes me laugh, low and rough, and I lean back over her, bracing my hands on either side of her, letting her feel my body hovering. All that weight kept just off her, but close enough to make it clear what she’s getting into.
“You wanna feel me, baby?” I murmur, my chest brushing hers just barely, the friction of my skin against her cotton-covered tits making her breath catch. “Go ahead. I’m yours.”
And she takes the invitation.
Her hands slide up, palms flat to my stomach, dragging over every inch like she’s memorizing it.
She skims up my ribs, across my chest, fingers pausing when they hit an old scar on my side, then moving again, up to my shoulders.
Her touch is soft—reverent, almost—but there’s heat behind it too.
That same fire I feel boiling just under the surface.
“You’re hard everywhere,” she breathes, voice small but real, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud but couldn’t keep it in. “Your body’s so nice…”
I blink. That—that hits different.