Chapter 28: Yum
The suds were warm, the water sluicing over the last plate in a mindless, rhythmic motion. Svet stared out the kitchen window at the deepening twilight, her thoughts a soft, humming blur of contentment. The conversation with Marianne had left a peculiar calm in its wake, a sense of having passed some unspoken test not of worth, but of readiness.
“Just put that in the dishwasher, my love,” she said absently, nodding toward the ceramic bowl in Joe’s hand as he cleared the counter.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip of the tap.
Her own words echoed in her ears. My love. She hadn’t even thought it. It had just fallen out, casual as breath. Her hands stilled in the soapy water. She didn’t dare turn around.
She heard the soft thump of the bowl being set down. Then the heat of him was at her back, not touching, just there, a solid wall of presence. His breath stirred the hair at her temple.
“Say that again.” His voice was gravel, a low vibration she felt in her spine.
“I didn’t—” she started, but the denial was useless. Her neck was already arching on its own as his lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“You did.” His mouth was hot, his kisses slow and devastating as they traveled the cord of her neck to her shoulder, his big hands coming to rest on her hips, pinning her gently against the sink’s edge. The coarse fabric of his shirt brushed her bare arms. “Say it.”
A shiver, deep and unlocking, rolled through her. “Joe…”
“Was it an accident?” He nipped gently at her shoulder, his teeth a sharp contrast to the soft swipe of his tongue that followed. One hand slid from her hip, creeping slowly across the plane of her stomach, rucking up the thin cotton of her t-shirt. His palm was searing against her skin.
“I don’t know,” she breathed, and it was the truth. Her head fell back against his chest, eyes closing.
“Good.” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her sweatpants, tracing the line of her pelvis. “Keep not knowing.”
His touch was a deliberate, claiming circuit. His other hand came up to cup her breast through her shirt, his thumb circling her nipple until it tightened into a hard, aching point. He was learning her, and he was learning fast. Every sigh, every involuntary twitch was a lesson he filed away.
“Turn around,” he murmured against her skin, his fingers still working deliberate circles lower, dipping into the heat between her legs but not giving her what she craved. “Look at me.”
Her body moved before her mind could process the command. She turned, wet hands coming up to brace against his chest. His eyes were black with intent, his expression one of fierce, quiet concentration. He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.
“My love,” she whispered, testing it. It felt dangerous. It felt right.
A sound, almost a groan, tore from his throat. He kissed her, hard, swallowing the words and any that might follow. It was a kiss of possession, deep and wet and hungry. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, perching her on the edge of the cleared counter. The dishes rattled in the sink beside them.
He stepped between her spread legs, his erection a rigid, daunting pressure against the fly of his jeans, grinding against her core through their clothes. The friction was maddening, insufficient. She clawed at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. He broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.
Her hands raced over the expanse of his chest, the defined slabs of his abdomen, the terrifying, beautiful power of him. He made quick work of her sweatpants and panties, pulling them down her legs and dropping them to the floor. His own jeans and briefs followed, kicked away in a heap.
His cock sprung free, thick and heavy and flushed. Her breath hitched. Even after the first time, the sight of him, the sheer physical reality of him, was a shock to her system.
“Okay?” he asked, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming in ragged pulls.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He wrapped a massive hand around himself, stroking slowly, the blunt head dragging through her wetness, slicking himself with her. The obscene sound of it, the visual of his fist pumping his own shaft with her juices, made her clench around nothing.
“Fuck, Svet,” he gritted out, watching where they almost connected. “Look at that. You’re so fucking ready for me.”
He leaned in, biting her earlobe. “This is only your second time. I should go slow. Be gentle.” He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, not pushing, just letting her feel the imminent stretch. “But I don’t think I can.”
“Don’t you dare be gentle,” she gasped, clutching his shoulders.
With a single, relentless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The air punched out of her lungs. It was a filling, a claiming, a blissful violation of space. He held there, trembling with the effort of staying still, letting her body adjust to the brutal, wonderful invasion.
“Jesus,” he whispered, his eyes screwed shut. “You’re so fucking tight. It’s like you’re squeezing the life out of me.”
Then he began to move.
It was not the hesitant, exploratory rhythm of their first night. This was focused, powerful, deep. He set a punishing pace from the start, each drive of his hips knocking a sharp cry from her throat. He held her by the waist, controlling the depth, the angle, slamming her back against the cabinets with every plunge. The glasses inside chimed in protest.
“You take me so good,” he grunted, his voice ragged. “Every fucking inch. You feel that? That’s all me. Inside you.”
She could only nod, her words stolen, her world reduced to the sensation of him splitting her open, the slap of skin, the coarse hair of his thighs abrading her tender inner skin. One of his hands snaked between them, his thumb finding her clit. The jolt of dual stimulation made her back arch violently.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his thumb working frantic, filthy circles. “Come on my cock, Svet. I want to feel you come.”
It was too much, too fast, too perfect. The climax shattered her, a white-hot detonation that started in her core and radiated out to her fingertips. She screamed, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses.
He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering, drawing the pleasure out until it bordered on pain. When her spasms finally subsided into shaky tremors, he pulled out suddenly.
Before she could protest the emptiness, he had her flipped over, her cheek pressed against the cool granite of the countertop. He bent her over, his hand a heavy brand on the small of her back.
This entry was rougher, more animal. He didn’t wait for permission, just drove back into her sodden heat with a guttural groan. The angle was different, deeper, hitting a spot that made her see stars.
“This ass,” he muttered, his hand sliding down to grip the curve of her rear, kneading the flesh as he pounded into her. “I’m going to fuck you every way there is. I’m going to learn what makes you scream. I’m going to own every sound you make.”
He did. He fucked her on the counter until her legs gave out, then carried her to the living room floor, laying her on the plush rug. He took her again, slower this time, his eyes locked on hers as he moved in long, grinding strokes, swallowing her whimpers with deep, soul-searching kisses.
After he came inside her with a broken shout, his big body shuddering, he didn’t pull away. He rolled, taking her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison.
He brushed the hair from her damp forehead. “Okay?” he asked again, the word soft now.
She nodded against his chest, unable to speak.
He carried her to the shower, washed her with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the raw intensity of their coupling. Then he carried her to bed.
It was there, in the dark sanctuary of his sheets, that something shifted. Her body was humming, alive, awake in a way it had never been. The soreness between her legs was a delicious trophy. And she wanted more.
When he reached for her again, his intention clear in the hardening of his body against her thigh, she put a hand on his chest.
“My turn,” she said. Her voice sounded different. Lower. Sure.
She pushed him onto his back. In the faint light from the window, she saw his eyes widen, a flicker of surprise and sharp interest. She straddled his hips, feeling him, hard and eager, against her.
She took him in hand, guiding him to her entrance. She sank down slowly, watching his face contort, hearing the sharp intake of his breath. The power was dizzying. To see this giant of a man utterly at her mercy, his control fraying because of her.
She set the pace. A slow, maddening rise and fall. She leaned back, bracing her hands on his thighs, presenting herself, taking him deeper. She watched herself fuck him, the lewd joining of their bodies, and a new, wild confidence bloomed in her chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands coming up to grip her hips, not to guide, just to hold on. “You’re in charge. Do it. Use me.”
She did. She rode him hard, finding the angle that made him shout, the rhythm that made his eyes roll back. The control was intoxicating. She felt powerful, beautiful, invincible. She came again, unraveling with a choked cry, and the convulsions of her own body triggered his. He came with a roar, his hands vise-like on her, holding her down as he pumped his release deep inside her.
She collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin meeting his. They were both wrecked. Utterly spent.
A long time later, just as the first grey light of dawn began to seep around the edges of the blinds, he stirred. He pulled her closer, nuzzling into her hair.
“My love,” he whispered into the quiet.
This time, she didn’t hesitate. She turned her head, found his lips in the semi-darkness.
“Yours,” she breathed back. And it was neither an accident nor a secret whispered in the safety of sleep. It was a truth, hard-won and delivered directly into his mouth. A promise as raw and real as the marks they’d left on each other’s skin.