Chapter 6: Wall-Fucking Confirmation
The door clicked shut, a tiny, final sound that severed them from the hallway’s muted light and Chloe’s knowing laugh. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight sieving through the blinds. It painted silver bars across the rumpled bed.
For three heartbeats, there was only the sound of the distant ocean and their shared, tense breathing. Then Liam moved.
He didn’t kiss her. He backed her up, his body a wall of heat, until her shoulder blades hit the cool, painted drywall. His hands came up to cradle her face, but it wasn’t tender. It was possession.
“Tell me this is real,” he said, his voice a low scrape in the dark. “Tell me you’re not going to wake up tomorrow and pretend it didn’t happen.”
Before she could form a clever deflection, his mouth was on hers. This kiss wasn’t like the porch. It was desperate, hungry, a claim staked with teeth and tongue. She tasted the salt of her own skin on his lips. One hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, over the swell of her breast, her waist, and clamped on her hip. The other went to the hem of her sundress.
He bunched the thin cotton in his fist and shoved it upwards, past her stomach, her breasts, until it was rucked under her arms. The night air pebbled her exposed skin. His mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, her throat. He bit the curve of her shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp.
His fingers hooked into the sides of her panties—the replacement pair she’d pulled on after the porch—and tore. The fragile cotton gave way with a soft rip. He dragged them down her thighs and let them fall.
“Liam—”
“I saw the way you covered yourself on the swing,” he growled against her collarbone. His hand slid between her legs, palm cupping her roughly. She was already wet, a fresh slickness he found immediately. “You came on my tongue and then you tried to hide from me.”
He plunged two fingers inside her without warning. She cried out, her head thumping back against the wall. He fucked her with his hand, his fingers curling, scissoring, stretching her. The sound was obscenely wet in the quiet room.
“You think I’m letting you cover yourself up again?” he breathed, his own breath coming in ragged pulls. He added a third finger, the stretch burning beautifully. “This cunt is mine now. I felt it grip me. I want to see it. I want to taste it again.”
He dropped to his knees.
The image was devastating. Him, on his knees in a strip of moonlight, his beautiful face level with her sex. He didn’t pause. He pushed her thighs wider, his shoulders holding her open, and licked a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit.
Dizzy’s hands flew to his hair, fisting in the dark strands. “Oh, fuck…”
He ate her with a fervor that bordered on religious. He lapped at her, sucked her clit into his mouth, buried his tongue inside her as if chasing the memory of his own come. He was messy, ardent, his nose pressing against her, his stubble scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the room, louder than the ocean.
“You taste like me,” he moaned against her, the vibration making her legs shake. “You taste like us.”
Her orgasm built with terrifying speed, a tight, screaming coil in her gut. “I’m close, I’m so close, don’t stop—”
He didn’t. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking her clit in a relentless rhythm while his fingers pumped inside her. It was too much. The world dissolved into a white-hot rush of sensation. She came silently, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her body seizing, flooding his mouth. He drank her down, gentling his touch only as the last shudders wracked her.
He stood, his jeans already open, his cock springing free, thick and achingly hard. He was breathing like he’d run a mile. He grabbed her behind the thighs and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, pinning her against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck.
He didn’t guide himself. He just pushed upward, the broad head of his cock notching against her, and slammed home in one brutal thrust.
The force drove the air from her lungs. He was deeper than on the swing, the angle relentless. He held her there, impaled, his forehead against the wall beside her head.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She forced her eyes open. His face was inches away, eyes black with need, jaw taut.
“Who do you belong to right now?” His voice was guttural.
“You.” The word was a whisper, a surrender.
“Fucking right.”
He began to move. Short, punishing drives that hammered her into the wall. Each impact shook the frame, rattling the blinds. There was no rhythm, only a frantic, driving need. His hips pistoned, his balls slapping against her ass. The friction was incendiary, burning away every thought except the feel of him splitting her open.
“You take me so good,” he grunted, his breath hot on her ear. “This perfect, tight fucking cunt. Made for me.”
She could only cling to him, her moans muffled against his shoulder. Her nails dug into the hard muscle of his back. She was coming again, a darker, deeper wave building from the very core of her.
“Come on,” he urged, his pace becoming frenzied, brutal. “Squeeze me. Milk my cock. I wanna feel you come all over it.”
His words, filthy and raw, tipped her over the edge. Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent, rhythmic pulses. With a choked roar, he followed. He drove into her one last, shuddering time and held, his body rigid as he emptied himself deep inside her, each hot jet a pulse of possession against her cervix.
Slowly, the tension bled from his body. His grip on her thighs loosened. He slid out of her, lowering her gently until her feet found the floor. Her legs almost buckled. He caught her, holding her steady against him, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison.
For a long moment, they just stood there, leaning on the wall, entangled.
He finally stirred, pressing a soft, incongruously gentle kiss to her temple. “Okay?” he murmured.
She nodded into his chest. “Yeah.”
He led her to the bed. They didn’t speak. He pulled back the sheets and they crawled in, the crisp cotton cool against their heated skin. He pulled her back against his front, his arm a heavy band around her waist, his nose buried in her hair.
Through the thin wall, they heard the muffled sound of Chloe’s laugh, then a shush.
Dizzy tensed. Liam’s arm tightened.
“Let them hear,” he whispered, his lips moving against her ear. “I don’t care.”
But in the silence that followed, a different kind of tension settled. The frantic energy of the night was spent, and in its wake, reality seeped in. The vacation ended tomorrow. They lived three hours apart. This was a beach house, not a life.
Dizzy felt the old, familiar script writing itself in her mind. He got what he wanted. Now the awkwardness begins. She waited for him to roll away, to create space.
He didn’t. His breathing evened out, deep and slow. His hand splayed over her stomach, his thumb making absent, soothing circles on her skin.
Just before she drifted off, his voice, thick with sleep, rasped in the dark.
“Stay at my place next weekend.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, solid and sure as the wall at her back. A simple, devastating plan for a future that, for the first time, didn’t feel like a fantasy. She didn’t answer with words. She just placed her hand over his, lacing their fingers together against her skin, and let the sound of the ocean carry them both under.