Chapter 5: Bent Over and Claimed
The kitchen was a rectangle of harsh light in the otherwise dark house. Louis stood at the counter with his back to her, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he wiped down the last of the granite with a dish towel. He was still naked except for his boxers, still slick with sweat, still hard enough that the outline of his cock pressed against the cotton like a promise.
Brenda watched him from the doorway. She'd thrown on his discarded t-shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, the collar loose around her neck. It smelled like him—cheap deodorant and laundry detergent and something underneath that was just skin. She crossed her arms and leaned against the frame, letting her eyes travel the length of him.
"You missed a spot," she said.
He turned, towel in hand. His hair was a mess, sticking up in six directions. There was a red mark on his neck where she'd bitten him. "Where?"
"Here." She pointed to the counter beside him. It was spotless. He knew it was spotless. But he played along, wiping the same square of granite again while she walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the tile.
The wine bottle sat open near the sink, half-empty and sweating. She picked it up and took a long swallow, straight from the neck, letting the cold pinot grigio cut through the taste of him still coating her tongue. Then she set it down and pressed her palm flat against his chest.
He was warm. His heart was still hammering.
"You're not tired?" she asked.
"I'm exhausted." He dropped the towel on the counter. His hands found her hips through the thin cotton of his shirt. "But I'm also nineteen. So."
She laughed. It came out low and rough. She slid her hands up his chest, over his collarbones, until her fingers laced behind his neck. He bent his head, and she kissed him slow, tasting wine and herself on his lips.
"Good answer," she whispered.
He kissed her back harder. His hands slid under the hem of the shirt, palming her bare ass. She pulled his hips against hers and felt the hard line of his cock through his boxers, pressed against her belly. She was still sore from earlier, still swollen, but the ache was the good kind. The kind that reminded her she was alive.
He broke the kiss. His breath came fast against her mouth. "I want to try something."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Turn around," he said.
The command in his voice was new. It made her pulse skip. She considered pushing back, reasserting control, reminding him who was in charge. But the look in his eyes wasn't cocky. It was hungry. Curious. The same look he'd had the first night in her dining room, when he'd shown up with his battered copy of Wuthering Heights and no idea what he was walking into.
She turned around.
The granite was cold under her forearms. She heard him step closer, felt his hands settle on her hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of his own t-shirt. He pushed it up and over her head, leaving her naked in the bright white light. The overhead bulb cast hard shadows across her body—the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the stretch marks on her hips that she'd spent years hating.
He didn't seem to notice them. His hands ran down her back, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her.
"You're so fucking hot," he muttered.
She huffed a laugh. "Flattery."
"No." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the back of her shoulder. "I mean it. I've been thinking about this all week. About you. Bent over. In here. The way the light hits your skin."
"Romantic."
"Shut up."
She grinned. Then his hand cracked against her ass, sharp and sudden, and the grin fell off her face. She gasped, more surprised than hurt. The sting spread across her skin like heat.
"Did you just—"
"Yeah." His voice was low. His hand came down again, harder this time. She felt her whole body tighten, her cunt clenching around nothing. "Problem?"
She should have told him to stop. She should have reminded him who was in charge. Instead, she arched her back and pushed her ass against his hand, silently asking for more.
He gave it to her. Three more slaps, each one landing on the same spot until her skin burned and her thighs trembled. She was dripping down her legs, so wet she could feel it sliding down her inner thigh. When he finally stopped, the silence throbbed in her ears.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
He pushed inside her in one long stroke. No warning. No hesitation. Just the brutal, perfect stretch of him filling her up. She cried out, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth granite, and he didn't wait. He grabbed her hips and started fucking her, hard and fast, the slap of his thighs against her ass echoing off the kitchen walls.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Every thrust drove the air out of her lungs and replaced it with pure, white-hot pleasure. She heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize—low, guttural moans that felt like they were coming from someone else's body.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair. Not gentle. Not playful. He pulled her head back until her throat arched, until she was staring up at the ceiling through blurry eyes, and leaned down to whisper in her ear.
"You belong to me now."
His voice was a growl. His hips never stopped moving.
"Say it."
"I—" She gasped. "I belong to you."
"Again."
"I belong to you."
He let go of her hair and she dropped her head, breathing hard. His hand cracked against her ass again, then gripped her hip and pulled her back into his thrusts. He was fucking her like he owned her, deep and rough and relentless, and she loved every second of it.
Then he pulled out.
She whined at the sudden emptiness. Before she could protest, she felt the head of his cock pressing against her other hole. Not pushing in. Just resting there, a threat and a question.
"Yes," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Fucking do it."
He pushed in slow. So slow she could feel every inch of him stretching her, inch by inch, the pressure building until it was almost too much. She bit down on her lip and forced herself to breathe. Relax. Let him in.
When he was fully seated, he paused. His breath was ragged against her back. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered.
She laughed, breathless. "Eloquent."
He pulled back and thrust in again. The sensation was overwhelming—full, tight, dirty in a way that made her face burn and her cunt throb. He found a rhythm, slow and deep, and she heard herself moaning like a animal.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Yes. Don't stop."
"Tell me what you want."
"I want—" She swallowed. "I want you to own me. Use me. Fill me up."
"Fill you up how?"
"Everywhere. Anywhere. I don't care."
He pulled out of her ass and slammed back into her cunt in one furious stroke. She screamed. Actually screamed. Her whole body shook as he fucked her, his cock coated in her slick, sliding in and out with a wet, obscene sound.
"I'm going to come inside you," he growled. "Right here. And you're going to take it. Every last drop."
"Yes—Louis—please—"
"You're mine. This pussy is mine. Don't ever let anyone else touch it."
"Never—I promise—"
He drove into her harder, faster, his teeth gritted, his fingers biting into her hips. She felt him swell inside her, felt her own climax building like a fist closing around her spine. Then he slammed in one last time and buried himself to the hilt, and she felt it. The first hot pulse of his come flooding into her. Then another. Then another.
She came with him. Her vision went white. Her legs gave out. If he hadn't been holding her up, she would have collapsed onto the counter.
When he finally pulled out, she felt the trickle of his come sliding down her inner thigh. She stayed bent over the counter, panting, her cheek pressed to the cold granite. Her legs were shaking so badly she couldn't stand.
He stepped back. She heard him pick up the discarded towel and run it under the tap. Then his hands were on her hips, gentle this time, wiping the mess from her thighs with slow, careful strokes.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. Words felt impossible.
He turned her around. She leaned against the counter and looked at him. His face was soft. His eyes were wide and dark, and there was something in them she didn't quite recognize. Something that made her chest tight.
"I didn't hurt you?" he asked.
"No." She reached up and touched his face. "You didn't hurt me."
He turned his head and kissed her palm.
The overhead light flickered. In the pantry, the rows of jars caught the glow and cast long shadows across the floor. Outside, a car passed. The dog across the street started barking. The world went on.
"We should shower," she said.
"Yeah." But he didn't move.
She smiled. "Come on. I'll wash your back."
He took her hand. They left the towel crumpled on the counter, the wine still open, the light still on. The kitchen would still be there in the morning. So would the mess.
But for now, there was only the dark hall and the closed door and the sound of the shower running, and the two of them inside it, learning each other all over.