Page 50 of Chaos

Fast, maybe, but I’m ready for him.

He slides inside me, so thick, so full it hurts, stretching and pulling, as I lower myself down and can’t fit all of him.

I rise up again, back down, taking him deeper, wanting it to hurt so I know it’s real.

His hands leave my breasts, slide up my neck, into my hair. Gentle. But I don’t want gentle. Gentle will make me cry.

I want hard.

I catch his fingers between my teeth, biting down. Not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make him understand.

His eyes flash.

“Please.” I’m not even sure what I’m asking for.

His nostrils flare, doubt flaring in his eyes, that inside voice of his probably hissing lies to him about the type of man he should be.

“Get over it,” I hiss at him. “You don’t have to be gentle with me.”

He grabs me with a hard hand at my hip and tips me over onto my back, rolling on top of me in what feels like a wrestling hold, dragging my hands up over my head, holding them steady in one of his, shifting his angle and driving his hips into mine so deep there’s no room for anything else.

“No more giving yourself up for me,” he growls into my neck.

It’s not a promise I’m willing to make, so I say nothing, just lift my hips to meet him, suck on his shoulder, the taste and feel of him cauterizing the memories of the past month.

“I mean it. I’m twice … your size. I trained for this. I’ve been in … war zones.” He mauls my breast, tips my face up, sucks at my tongue, pants and grunts in my ear. Undone. He’s the most undone I’ve seen him. “Don’t put yourself at risk for me again.”

I feel his anger. Under it, I feel his fear, and I welcome it.

I can handle it.

I give it right back.

His teeth close over my shoulder.

I bite his neck.

Spur him harder.

“Fuck,” he snarls, pulling away, flipping me over with brute force, pushing inside me from behind, thrusting deep, the bed lurching.

My body clamps down on his, shuddering, squeezing him tight, as my body breaks over a threshold, feeling pure, undiluted pleasure, for the first time in more than a month.

I shake and sputter and groan, nonsense words spilling out of me, hair waterfalling around my face, hands splayed across the sheets, and most of all Yorke, deep and solid inside me.

When I’m done, he starts to pull out, pull away.

“No,” I breathe immediately. “Don’t go.”

“I’m about to come,” he pants.

“Stay. I can’t … not right now.”

He pushes himself back inside me. He wasn’t lying. Almost immediately, the wet heat of his release spreads deep inside.

He stays like that for a long time, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades.

Finally, he rolls us over, the sweat cooling on our skin, our bodies still joined. And I don’t ever want to move. “I don’t want anything to change.”

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