Chapter 16 #3
My fingers curl in the sheets, jaw slack, every nerve ending flaring alive again as he starts to move—long, dragging thrusts that fill me completely, the stretch just shy of too much, but that’s exactly what I want.
I need it.
And he gives it.
His grip gets tighter, rougher, hips slamming harder now, but never losing that rhythm. Never losing that care. He mutters filth into my hair—how good I take him, how tight I am, how sweet I sound when I moan for more.
And I do.
I can’t stop.
I moan for him like I was made for it.
The headboard knocks lightly against the wall, but he doesn’t care.
He just fucks me harder, deeper, each thrust dragging a ragged little sound out of my throat.
The slap of skin against skin grows louder, wetter, more insistent—his hips unrelenting, his body pinning me to the mattress like he’s trying to fuck every last memory of hurt out of me.
And maybe he is. Maybe that’s exactly what this is—his way of showing care. Of loving me the way he knows how.
“Fuck, this tattoo is so sexy on you,” he growls, voice all gravel and grit, his hand spreading wide on the small of my back, fingers curling tight against my skin.
I almost laugh—almost—because the last time I thought that ink was sexy, I was seventeen and high on the freedom of being legal and unsupervised.
It was a week after I left home, after I got that first taste of escape and thought it would fix everything.
I walked into a shitty strip-mall parlor with a twenty-dollar bill and a dream of being wild. Of living free.
It was a rebellion.
Now it’s a regret.
But not in his hands.
Not with the way Desmond touches it. Talks to it. Claims it like it’s part of something beautiful.
He drags his teeth down my spine and then kisses it—right above the curve of the butterfly—his breath hot, his voice thick with rough praise.
“You don’t even know what this does to me,” he mutters, grinding into me deep, his hand sliding up my ribs until he’s cupping my breast from behind. “You, down like this… with that little mark staring back at me like you were made to take it rough.”
My whole body tightens at his words. At the way he fucks me like it’s his right—but still checks every moan I make, every twitch of my hips, like he’s tuned to my body better than I am.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, fingers curling into the sheets. “I love it like this.”
That gets him.
“Yeah?” His hand snakes into my hair, gripping tight at the base of my skull, pulling just enough to arch my back. “You like when I fuck you like this, baby? You like how deep I get when you give me your whole body?”
“Yes,” I moan, the words punched out of me as he drives back in, harder now, rougher. “I trust you—don’t hold back.”
He growls—deep, feral, but there’s something else there too. Something soft hidden under the sound, like my trust cracked him open in ways he wasn’t ready for.
And then he’s bending over me again, chest blanketing my back, hand still in my hair but no longer pulling—just holding me steady while his mouth finds my ear.
“You’re perfect,” he breathes, the words gritted out between thrusts. “You give it to me so sweet, and take it so fucking dirty. Like it’s what you were made for.”
I moan—high, trembling, desperate.
Because he’s right.
With him, like this? It is what I was made for.
My body blooms under him—open, drenched, greedy—and every time he slams into me, it’s like he’s proving something to the world. That I can be both soft and strong. That I can want it rough because I feel safe, not in spite of it.
His hand slides down again, fingertips brushing my stomach, possessive and warm, then slipping lower to where I’m swollen and slick and already close to falling apart all over again.
“Touch yourself for me,” he mutters into my neck, his cock still plunging deep. “Show me how much you like taking me.”
I do it.
Without hesitation.
Because I trust him now. Fully.
My hand trembles as I find my clit, rub tight little circles while he fucks me into the mattress, while he watches my every move like I’m his whole damn world.
“You’re mine,” he groans, voice cracking with it. “Every inch of you.”
And I believe it.
I want it.
The second orgasm crashes down harder than the first, my body seizing up, crying out into the sheets as he pounds me through it, whispering broken praise into my skin.
“Good girl. That’s my good fucking girl.”
When he finally comes again, it’s with a curse and a stuttering groan, his hips jerking as he buries himself to the hilt, chest heaving, breath hot at my ear.
He doesn’t move for a long time after.
Just breathes.
One hand in my hair, the other curved over my hip, thumb stroking slow little circles into my skin like he’s trying to soothe me after burning me down.
And me?
I melt under him. Legs limp. Body shaking in the aftermath. But not from fear.
From everything else.
From being seen.
From being held.
From being wanted, exactly the way I am.
Even with a tramp stamp.
Even with old bruises under my skin and years of bad choices behind me.
Because Desmond doesn’t see a regret.
He sees me.
And fuck—maybe that’s the sexiest thing of all.