Chapter 6: Crossing the Line
Joseph’s hands slid lower, cupping her ass through her skirt gently as he pressed her slightly harder against the wall. His mouth hovered over hers. “Tell me to stop.” He whispered. He couldn’t help it; his hips rolled against her once.
They both groaned.
He stayed pressed against her so she could feel him, hard and insistent, straining against the denim of his jeans. The heat was a live wire between them.
“I can’t,” she breathed into the scant space between their lips. Her own hips tilted, seeking the pressure, answering the slow grind. The floral wallpaper felt rough against her shoulders. “I don’t want to.”
His thumb stroked the hem of her skirt where it met her thigh, a tiny, agonising rhythm. When he opened his eyes again, the blue was almost black.
Then he kissed her.
It was hard but somehow gentle, always gentle, a consuming pressure that held the ghost of his restraint. He tasted of blood and spearmint and a desperation that mirrored her own. His hands secured under her thighs, lifting her from the wall as if she weighed nothing.
He walked them the short distance into his bedroom, never breaking the kiss. The world was his mouth, his arms, the solid heat of his chest. His heels hit the edge of his bedframe with a soft thud, and he sat down, settling her onto his lap.
She straddled him slowly, the denim of his jeans rough against her inner thighs. Her skirt bunched around her waist. She began grinding back and forth, a slow, seeking friction that made him gasp into her mouth.
His hands slid up her back, beneath her tank top. His palms were warm and slightly rough against her skin. They moved in time with her hips, a silent encouragement.
“Bella.” He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers. His breathing was ragged. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.” She whispered the truth, grinding down harder, feeling the exquisite ache of him against her. “I just know I need this.”
His lips found her jaw, then her throat, open-mouthed kisses that were apologies and claims all at once. He sucked gently at the pulse hammering there. One of his hands fisted in the back of her shirt, the other gripping her hip, guiding her rhythm.
She cradled his head, her fingers in his hair. She couldn’t stop moving.
“I can feel you,” she said, her voice husky. She rocked forward, watching his eyelids flutter. “Even through the clothes. I can feel every inch.”
A low groan escaped him. His head fell back, tendons standing out in his neck. His hands tightened on her, holding her still for a moment against the frantic heat of him. “You have to know… that night wasn’t just a night for me.”
Her heart clenched. She stopped moving, her whole body still. “It wasn’t for me either.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the fear in his eyes, so much more terrifying than any desire. It was the fear of having something you know you shouldn’t. He pulled her down for another kiss, slower this time, deep and searching.
She answered with a hungry noise, her hands cradling his wounded face with a tenderness that contradicted the frantic heat building between their bodies.
Then his arms tightened around her, and in one fluid motion, he stood from the bed with her still wrapped around him. The world tilted. He laid her back against the rumpled blue comforter, the fabric cool through her tank top. He followed her down, bracing his weight on his forearms, his body a welcome cage.
His hands smoothed down her sides, coming to rest on the black fabric of her skirt. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and questioning, his breathing uneven. He didn’t have to say anything.
“Take them off,” she said, the words hardly more than air.
He didn’t hesitate. His fingers found the button, the zipper, the sound stark in the quiet room. He slid her skirt down her legs, taking it off, the fabric whispering against her skin before it pooled on the floor. He hooked a finger in the hem of her black panties, pulling them down her legs in one slow, deliberate motion.
The cool air of the room washed over her, a shock that made her shiver. He got back between her thighs, his gaze sweeping over her. A raw, fractured sound left his chest.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the word thick with awe. He looked up the length of her body, meeting her eyes. “Can I taste you?”
She nodded frantically, her head pressing back into the comforter. She was beyond words, reduced to this single, desperate gesture of consent.
He lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue was a slow, deliberate slide through her folds, an exploration that made her toes curl. He found his way to her clit, a soft, seeking pressure.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, her hips lifting off the bed.
His tongue worked slow, devoted circles against her, a rhythm that was all patience and focused attention. He groaned into her, the vibration traveling straight to her core. Her fingers tangled in his black hair, not guiding, just holding on, pulling him in further as if she could fuse him to her.
He applied more pressure with his tongue, the flat of it dragging firmly, then relenting. He slowly slid a finger through her soaked folds, then two, slipping inside her with an effortless glide. Her back arched off the bed, a sharp, helpless curve.
“Yes,” she moaned, the word breaking apart.
He curled his fingers slowly, finding a spot that made her cry out. He swapped his tongue’s pace, alternating between slow, languid sweeps and a slightly faster, focused friction that had her thighs trembling against his ears.
Every sound he made, every groan muffled against her skin, was a claim. This was nothing like the frantic, fumbling exchanges she was used to; this was a man learning her, worshipping her, ruining her for anyone else.
The pressure built in a deep, gathering coil. She was murmuring his name, a broken litana, her grip on his hair tightening. He read her body perfectly, his fingers curling, his tongue relentless. The world narrowed to the feeling of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble on her inner thighs, the scent of his shampoo mixed with her own arousal.
The climax tore through her without warning, a violent, rolling wave that snatched the air from her lungs. She clenched around his fingers, a soundless cry on her lips, her body bowing tight before collapsing back onto the bed, utterly spent.
He rested his forehead against her inner thigh, his breathing ragged. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below her navel.
She thought he was finished. Her body was a map of tremors, her mind blissfully blank. But he wasn’t.
He very slowly cleaned the mess he made, a beautiful fucking mess. His tongue traced the swollen, sensitive flesh with a languid, thorough care that felt like a continuation of the act itself, a devotional cleanup. She shuddered, overstimulated and raw.
She was sensitive. She grabbed his head, her fingers tightening in his hair, and pulled him up to kiss her. Her mouth found his, tasting herself on his lips, a stark and intimate flavor that obliterated every other thought.
“My turn,” she whispered against his mouth, her voice wrecked.
She shifted her weight, pushing at his shoulders. He understood, rolling onto his back with a look of stunned surrender. The pale light from the hallway cut across the bed, illuminating the tense lines of his abdomen, the prominent bulge in his jeans.
She straddled his hips, leaning over him. Her hands went to the button of his jeans, her movements deliberate. She unbuttoned them, zipped them down with a slow, grating sound.
She tugged his jeans and his boxers just below his hips. That was all she needed. They bunched there, a barrier that suddenly seemed absurd.
She looked. She looked at what was in her three days ago, what would be in her again. In the dim light, he was thick and straining, the vein along the side pronounced. A low sound escaped her, part hunger, part recognition.
She wrapped her hand around him, stroking up and down slowly. The skin was smooth and hot, shifting under her palm.
He groaned, “Ohhh, yes.” The word was a ragged exhale. His head pressed back into the pillow, eyes closing.
She watched him, studying the way his jaw clenched, the flutter of a muscle in his cheek. Then she moved her hand down to the base of his cock, stroking firmly. He looked up, his blue eyes glazed and desperate.
Her mouth slowly lowered over the tip of his cock. She took him in, just the head, her tongue circling the sensitive ridge beneath.
His head flew back against the pillow. “Fuck.” He moaned, the curse long and drawn out. His hands fisted in the comforter.
She took as much as she could just below the tip, her mouth a wet, tight heat. Her hands started stroking slightly faster, twisting around what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. The combined rhythm was messy and perfect.
He looked back at her, his gaze heavy-lidded. Her eyes locked onto his, green holding blue in a dare as she worked him.
She moved her hands and took as much as she could, constricting her throat to fit more. She gagged halfway down his cock, a rough, involuntary sound.
His eyes rolled back. A strangled groan tore from his chest. His hands flew up to grab her head, his fingers tangling in her hair—but he stopped. He forced his hands back to the mattress, knuckles white with the effort of not controlling her, of letting her have this.
“Bella, Christ,” he managed, his voice shredded. “I can’t—I’m gonna…”
She pulled off with a wet pop, her hand never stopping its steady, twisting rhythm. “Look at me,” she breathed.
He dragged his eyes open, meeting hers. The conflict was still there, a shadow behind the sheer physical need. But in this moment, it was secondary.
“I want to feel you,” she said, her voice low. “I want to feel you come apart.”
She lowered her mouth again, taking him deep until her throat resisted, until her eyes watered. She held there for a second, her world narrowed to his taste, his scent, the choked sound he made above her.
This was the theft, she realized. Not the sex. This intimacy, this specific knowledge of what broke him. She owned it now, and she would have to carry it.
The weight of that knowledge fueled her. She took him down her throat again, her lips tight around the middle of his cock. He was on the verge of cumming. His hands fisted in the sheets as she kept her head there longer this time.
She swirled her tongue around the shaft twice, a slow, corkscrew motion that made his entire body tense like a bowstring.
A guttural, broken sound ripped from his chest. “Bella, stop, I’m—now”
He held back the urge when she came up to breathe, her lungs burning. He grabbed her, his movements frantic, pulling her up next to him on the bed. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving.
In one frantic motion, he shrugged off his jeans and boxers, kicking them to the floor. He reached for the nightstand drawer, yanking it open. The contents rattled. He fumbled inside, his hand emerging with a single foil square.
He tore it open with his teeth, his hands shaking. She watched him, her own breath coming in short, sharp pulls. The condom seemed absurd, a flimsy barrier against the enormity of what they were doing.
He sheathed himself quickly, the latex whispering in the quiet room. The clinical act was a splash of cold reality. He paused then, just for a second, looking at her. The foil wrapper lay discarded on the comforter like evidence.
“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was ravaged, but the question was clear. It was his last stand, the final offer of an exit she wouldn’t take.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything wrong in my life,” she said, and the dark honesty of it hung between them.