Chapter 8: The Claiming
The world narrowed to the feel of his hands under her thighs, the solid grip of his arms cradling her back, the frantic beat of his heart against her chest as he carried her the short distance to the bed. He didn’t lay her down so much as melt onto the mattress with her, collapsing into the center of the tangled sheets, his mouth never leaving hers. It was a kiss that tasted like desperation and homecoming, all tongue and heat and shared breath.
He broke away only to look at her, his dark eyes scanning her face in the shadowy room. The light from the living room cut across the bed, painting a stripe of gold over his shoulder and her bare thigh. “Tell me this is okay,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Tell me to stay.”
“Stay.” The word was a plea. She reached up, her fingers finding the short, soft hairs at the nape of his neck. “God, Nate, just stay.”
He kissed her again, slower now, deeper, as his hands began to move. He lifted her t-shirt, breaking the kiss only long enough to pull it over her head and toss it aside. His own shirt followed, the muscles of his chest and abdomen stark in the low light, defined shadows shifting with every breath. She touched him, her palms sliding over the warm, smooth skin of his shoulders, down the rigid planes of his stomach. He hissed, his eyes closing for a second.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, lowering his head to her breast, his mouth closing over her nipple through the lace of her bra. She cried out, back arching off the bed, the sensation a sharp, perfect shock that arrowed straight to her core. He worked the clasp open with a practiced flick, peeling the garment away and taking her fully into his mouth, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing with just enough edge to make her gasp.
His hand slid down her body, over the curve of her hip, pushing her cotton shorts and underwear down her legs in one impatient motion. He knelt back, his gaze burning as it traveled the length of her naked body.“Fuck, Jenny. Look at you.” The reverence in his voice was tangled up with pure, unadulterated lust. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of his own jeans and boxer-briefs, shoving them down and kicking them off. She had a brief, breathtaking view of him—fully erect, thick and ready—before he covered her body with his again.The weight of him was exquisite. The heat of his skin, the coarse brush of his hair against her thighs, the urgent press of his cock against her stomach. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, her jaw, while his hand found its way between her legs. His fingers parted her folds, sliding through her wetness with a low, approving sound. “So fucking ready for me,” he growled. One finger, then two, pushed inside her, curling, finding a rhythm that had her hips lifting off the mattress.“Nate…” It was a whimper, a broken thing.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his mouth against her ear. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want you.I want you inside me. Now.” The words were raw, stripped of any pretense.He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her entrance. He paused, his forehead damp against hers, his whole body trembling with restraint. “I won’t be gentle,” he warned, his voice a dark promise.
“Don’t you dare be gentle.”
With a guttural groan, he pushed forward, burying himself in one relentless, deep thrust. She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him, a sharp, full ache that quickly blossomed into a white-hot friction. He was everywhere, filling her completely, the feeling so intense it bordered on pain before shimmering into pure, mindless pleasure.
“Oh, Christ,” he choked out, his arms caging her head. He didn’t move for a long moment, just let her clench around him, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Then he withdrew almost all the way before slamming back in.That was the rhythm he set.It wasn’t making love. It was a claiming. Each drive of his hips was deliberate, powerful, a piston stroke that shoved the bed frame against the wall with a steady, rhythmic thump. The air filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, their mingled grunts and gasps, the creak of the old mattress springs.One of his hands slid from the sheet beside her head and wrapped around her throat. Not squeezing, just holding.The possessive weight of it sent a violent thrill through her. His thumb pressed against her pulse, feeling it hammer under his touch.
“You see?” he rasped, his thrusts never faltering.“You feel that?This is what you do to me. You’re mine.This tight, perfect cunt is mine. Say it.”
She was unraveling, the coil inside her winding tighter with every brutal, perfect stroke. “Yours,” she managed, the word barely a sound.
“Fucking right.” He shifted his angle, hitting a spot that made her vision star.Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper, harder. The pressure built, a screaming tide. She clawed at his shoulders, his back, marking him, anchoring herself to the storm.He was close. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, the cords standing out in his neck.His thrusts became more erratic, more frantic. “Come for me, Jenny. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
It was the command in his voice, the filthy, beautiful rightness of it, that sent her over the edge. The orgasm tore through her, a convulsive, shattering wave that ripped a scream from her lungs—a raw, broken sound that was absolutely his name.
The clenching of her body around him was his undoing. With a final, driving plunge, he buried himself to the hilt, his own release hitting him with a force that bowed his back. A rough, shattered curse tore from his throat as he pulsed inside her, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks.
Slowly, the world seeped back in.The smell of sex and sweat. The damp chill of the room on her overheated skin. The heavy, satisfying weight of him collapsed atop her, his face buried in the hollow of her neck.His breath was hot and uneven against her shoulder.
For a long time, neither of them moved.The only sound was their breathing, gradually slowing, synchronizing. His hand, still loosely curled around her neck, drifted up to cup her cheek. He lifted his head, his eyes hazy and sated, and looked at her.Really looked. There was no jealousy there now, no angst.Just a quiet, dazed wonder.
“Well,” Jenny whispered, her voice hoarse. “That was… a statement.”
A slow, tired, utterly genuine smile touched his lips. He shifted, pulling out of her gently, and rolled to his side, taking her with him so she was tucked against his chest. “Yeah,” he said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. “Think I got my point across?”
She nodded into his shoulder, a languid, boneless satisfaction settling into her bones. The distant hum of the refrigerator, the muffled sound of traffic from the street below—it all felt different now.The air in the room was changed. Charged, but peaceful.Eventually, he stirred. “I’m starving,” he admitted, his stomach giving a loud growl against hers.She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “The cold Thai food?”
“The cold Thai food.” He kissed her forehead and slid out of bed, walking naked to the door without a hint of self-consciousness. The sight of him—the powerful lines of his back, the faint red scratches she’d left there—sent a fresh, warm pulse through her.He returned a minute later with the paper bag and two forks. He got back into bed, pulling the comforter over them both, and handed her a container of pad see ew.
They ate in a comfortable, exhausted silence, passing the boxes between them, their legs tangled under the sheets. It was absurd.It was intimate.It felt more significant than anything that had come before.
“So,” Nate said finally, stabbing a piece of chicken. “My sister’s party is next weekend.”
Jenny froze, a noodle halfway to her mouth. The real world, with all its complications, came crashing back in.Sarah.His sister.Her best friend. Who thought of Nate as her perpetually single, slightly moody little brother. Who had no idea that her little brother was currently naked in Jenny’s bed, smelling of her and sex.
“Shit,” Jenny breathed.“Yeah.” Nate put his container aside.“I’m not hiding, Jenny. I’m done with that.”
She looked at him, at the fierce resolve in his eyes. The possessiveness was still there, but it was tempered now, directed outward as protection rather than inward as angst. “She’s going to freak out.”
“Probably.” He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.“But that’s our problem.Not yours and hers. Ours.You and me.We’re a ‘we’ now. Right?”
She looked down at their joined hands on the rumpled comforter, strewn with takeout boxes. His hand was larger, scarred from weights, strong.Hers fit inside it perfectly. The word hummed in the space between them, solid and terrifying and right.
“Right,” she said, and brought his knuckles to her lips.