Chapter 6: The Threshold
The instant the door clicks shut, Isaac's body is on her—no warning, no hesitation, just the hard slam of his chest against hers and the wall knocking the air from her lungs. His mouth crushes hers, feral and claiming, all teeth and tongue and a low growl that vibrates through her bones. Emily gasps into him, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders, but he's already moving, already tearing at the buttons of her blouse with a desperate, snarling impatience.
The fabric rips. She hears it—the sharp, wet sound of seams giving way—and then his hands are on her breasts, calloused and rough, thumbs dragging over her nipples with a roughness that makes her whimper against his mouth.
"Isaac—"
"Don't." The word is a snarl, barely human. He pulls back just enough to look at her, and his eyes are blazing, pale blue burning with something electric and feral, gold flecks igniting in the dim light of the living room. "Don't talk. Don't think. Just feel."
He drops to his knees like a man praying, or a man about to devour, and Emily's breath catches. Her jeans are already undone—when did that happen?—and he yanks them down her hips with brutal efficiency, panties following in the same savage motion, leaving them bunched around her ankles. The cold air hits her wet skin and she shudders, but the heat of his breath is already there, already searing.
His hands grip her thighs, spreading her open, and then his mouth is on her, and Emily's mind goes blank.
He eats her like a starving man, no finesse, no teasing—just ravenous, filthy hunger. His tongue licks a long, flat stroke up her slick folds before darting inside, probing, tasting, while his nose grinds hard against her clit. She cries out, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face, but he holds her in place with a grip like iron, a low groan of satisfaction vibrating against her flesh.
"Christ, you taste good," he mutters against her, his breath fogging her skin. "Sweet and fucking perfect. Been thinking about this— thinking about you— since the goddamn moment you grabbed me at that party."
Emily can't respond. Her head falls back against the wall, a guttural moan escaping her throat as his tongue finds her clit and starts to circle it with dirty, deliberate pressure. He licks and probes and sucks, pulling her apart with his mouth, his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh just hard enough to send sparks shooting through her core.
"Look at you," he growls, pulling back just long enough to stare up at her, his lips slick with her, his eyes burning with feral adoration. "Dripping down your thighs for me. So fucking beautiful."
"Isaac—" His name is a plea, barely a whimper.
He dives back in with a snarl, his tongue flattening against her, broad and hot, before focusing back on her clit with punishing precision. Two fingers slide into her without warning, thick and demanding, curling against that spot inside her that makes her vision white. Emily's fingers fist in his wild curls, pulling hard, but he only groans in approval, working her faster, harder, his mouth never leaving her.
"You gonna come for me?" His voice is a ragged, possessive growl against her thigh. "Gonna come all over my tongue like a good girl?"
She shatters.
It hits her like a tidal wave, a screaming, convulsing orgasm that tears a raw cry from her throat. Her body clenches around his fingers as wave after wave crashes through her, her hips grinding against his face as he laps up every drop, groaning in fucking reverence. The world tilts and dissolves, leaving only the burning pleasure of his mouth and the steady, unrelenting pulse of his tongue through her aftershocks.
Before she can breathe, he rises.
He rises to his full, towering height, and Emily is struck by the sheer size of him as he looms over her. His eyes are still that impossible, electric blue, burning with barely leashed hunger. His shirt is gone—when did that happen?—and she can see the hard planes of his chest, the muscles, the pale scars that trace his ribs like lightning. He spins her around with a growl, its authority cutting through her like a knife, and she has just enough time to brace her palms against the worn leather of the couch before he bends her over its arm.
"Hold on, sweetheart." His voice is rough, guttural, barely a whisper of control left in it.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't give her warning. His hand slams down on her upper back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades, pressing her into the cushion so hard the breath gusts out of her. The other hand clamps around her hip—bruising, iron-tight—and then he's pushing into her, and Emily screams.
He is so thick. So deep. He fills her in one brutal, animalistic thrust, splitting her open, his cock stretching her walls until she feels the ache of it in her chest. Her fingers scramble for purchase on the leather, finding nothing, nails digging uselessly into the upholstery as he pulses inside her, his hips grinding against her ass, forcing himself deeper, deeper, until she feels entirely consumed.
"Jesus—" she gasps, her voice cracking.
He pulls back, drags his cock nearly all the way out, and slams back in with a force that shoves her forward, the couch groaning as it scrapes across the floorboards. And then he does it again. And again.
"You feel that?" His voice is a rough, possessive snarl, punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against her ass. "Feel how good you take my cock? How tight you grip me?"
Emily can't form words. She can only moan, a broken, desperate sound as he picks up a brutal rhythm, pounding into her without mercy. Each thrust drives her against the arm of the couch, leather smacking skin, sweat slicking the space between her shoulder blades. Her hips buck back against him, meeting him, matching his savage pace, and the noise he makes in response is almost animal.
"Fuck—" he growls, his hand tightening on her hip hard enough that she knows she'll have bruises by morning. "You look so fucking pretty like this. Bent over my couch, taking every inch of me, coming apart around my dick. So. Fucking. Pretty."
His words break apart into raw, guttural groans. His pace quickens, loses rhythm, becomes pure need. One hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pressing down, arching her deeper into him, and Emily feels her orgasm building, a hot, coiling pressure in her spine that threatens to snap.
"I'm gonna come," she gasps, her voice muffled by the leather. "Isaac, I'm gonna—"
"Let go," he snarls. "Fucking let go. I've got you."
She does. She screams his name as her body clenches around him, a violent, convulsive climax that rips through her, and she distantly hears his answering roar as he slams into her one last time—and then he's pulling out, a strangled, animalistic cry tearing from his throat as his hot release splatters across her ass, painting her skin in thick, pulsing streaks.
His body collapses onto hers, pinning her flat against the couch, his chest heaving against her back. They stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, slick with sweat, the mingled scent of sex and pine and their own bodies thick in the air. She can feel his heart hammering against her spine, brutal and fast, and she marvels at the sheer, primal fact of him.
Finally, he shifts. He presses a soft, almost tender kiss to her shoulder, a stark contrast to the savagery of moments before. "You okay?" His voice is a low rasp, rough with spent desire.
Emily laughs, a breathless little sound, and turns her head to look at him. Her body is trembling. Her thoughts are a mess of static and warmth. "I think I forgot my own name."
His lips twitch in a crooked, exhausted smirk as he pushes himself up, his weight leaving her. His hand traces lightly over the curve of her hip—gentle, almost reverent—before he pulls her upright against him, her back to his chest, and wraps his arms around her.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
She tilts her head back, looking up at him, and sees the flicker of gold in his eyes softening to the pale blue she knows. Something shifts in her chest—hope, fear, something unnamed, the moment the door clicked shut wrapped in the smell of sweat and sex and rain-soaked earth, tells her this was not the end of something, but the beginning.
"You're not gonna vanish on me now, are you?" she asks, her voice teasing but fragile.
Isaac's arms tighten around her, his chin dropping to rest on her shoulder, and she can feel the gruff tenderness in his voice when he murmurs, "Not a chance, Pearson. Not a goddamn chance."