Chapter 5: Too Eager, Too Slow
The rain had been falling for three days straight.
Scarlet watched it from her car, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, the wipers sweeping back and forth with a rhythm that matched the pounding in her chest. The address had come through at 2:47 AM—a string of numbers and a street name in a part of the city she'd never had reason to visit. No message. No explanation.
Just: 742 Ashford Street, Apt 4B.
She'd stared at it for an hour. Then two. Then she'd deleted it, restored it from her recently deleted folder, and deleted it again. The cycle had repeated itself four times before she'd finally fallen into a restless sleep, the numbers burned into her retinas like a brand.
Now it was Thursday. Seven days since the storeroom. Six days since she'd walked out of that house and left Ollie tied to his own headboard, hard and aching and unfinished.
Six days of silence.
She'd expected him to call. To text. To show up at her apartment with that look in his eyes—the one that said you belong to me and we both know it—and demand answers she didn't have.
He hadn't.
The silence had been worse than any confrontation. It had burrowed under her skin, planted seeds of doubt, made her replay every moment of that morning in excruciating detail. Had she gone too far? Had she finally pushed him past the point of patience?
Or—and this thought was worse—had he simply decided she wasn't worth the effort anymore?
Scarlet killed the engine. The rain hammered against the windshield, a cacophony of sound that drowned out the voice in her head telling her to turn around, go home, marry Marcus, forget about the man who'd been ruining her life since she was eighteen.
She got out of the car.
The building was old—red brick, fire escapes, the kind of place that had been converted from industrial to residential sometime in the nineties and never quite lost the smell of factory smoke. The elevator was broken. She took the stairs.
By the time she reached the fourth floor, her hair was dripping, her coat was soaked, and her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. She stood outside 4B, hand raised to knock, and hesitated.
What are you doing here, Scarlet?
What are you hoping to find?
She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately—as if he'd been standing on the other side, waiting. Ollie filled the frame, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was damp, tousled, and there was a smudge of something—paint, maybe—on his forearm.
He didn't look surprised.
"You came," he said.
Scarlet's throat tightened. "You sent the address."
"I did."
"Why?"
He stepped back, holding the door open. An invitation. A challenge.
"I think you know why."
She should have turned around. She should have walked back down those stairs, gotten in her car, and driven home to the apartment she shared with Marcus, the apartment with the wedding planner's vision and the future she'd promised to build.
Instead, she stepped inside.
---
The loft was exactly what she'd expected and nothing like she'd imagined.
Exposed brick walls, stained with decades of history. A single pendant lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting a dim amber glow over the space. A low bed in the corner, unmade, sheets tangled and carrying the faint scent of him—cedar and coffee and something underneath that was just skin.
Rain drummed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking the glass, blurring the city beyond into a watercolor smear of lights and shadows.
It was raw. Unapologetic. Him.
"Nice place," Scarlet said, her voice steadier than she felt.
"It's temporary."
"Everything with you is temporary."
He didn't flinch. He just looked at her—that quiet, intense gaze that had haunted her for a decade—and something in his expression shifted. Softened.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"Dangerous."
"About all the times I came and left you hanging."
Scarlet's breath caught. She hadn't expected this—not the words, not the acknowledgment, not the way he was looking at her like she was something precious and fragile and worth being careful with.
"You said I was always so good at waiting," he continued, stepping closer. "You were right. I was. I waited for you to call. I waited for you to show up. I waited for you to choose me over him, over all of them, over every safe, boring, normal option you kept running to."
"Ollie—"
"But I never thought about what I was doing to you." His voice dropped, rough and low. "Every time I touched you and then walked away. Every time I made you come and then left you there, alone, wanting. I never thought about how that felt."
Scarlet's eyes burned. She blinked, hard, refusing to let him see her cry.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the rain on his skin.
"Because I want to make it right."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
"How?"
He reached for her, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His fingers found the collar of her soaked coat and slid it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a wet heap.
Then he unbuttoned her blouse.
One button at a time. Deliberate. Patient. His knuckles brushed against her skin with each movement, leaving trails of heat that spread through her like wildfire.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm cold."
"No, you're not."
He pushed the blouse off her shoulders, and it joined the coat on the floor. She stood before him in a black lace bra, her nipples hard against the thin fabric, her skin covered in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Ollie's gaze dropped. Lingered. Then rose again to meet hers.
"You're beautiful," he said. "You've always been beautiful. But that's not why I can't let you go."
"Then why?"
He unhooked her bra with a practiced flick of his fingers—the kind of motion that spoke of years of familiarity, of knowing exactly how she worked. The lace fell away, and his hands found her breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over her nipples.
"Because you're mine," he said simply. "And I'm yours. And we've both been pretending otherwise for too long."
Scarlet opened her mouth to argue—to say something about Marcus, about the ring on her finger, about the life she'd chosen—but the words died in her throat when Ollie lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth.
She gasped.
His tongue swirled over the sensitive peak, hot and wet, and his other hand kneaded her breast with a roughness that made her knees buckle. He caught her, held her close, kept working her nipple until she was arching into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Ollie—"
"Shh."
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, while his hands slid down her back to her waistband. He unzipped her skirt, pushed it down her hips along with her underwear, leaving her completely naked in the dim light of his loft.
The rain continued its assault on the windows.
Ollie stepped back. Looked at her.
"You're perfect," he said. "Every inch of you. And I'm going to spend the next hour proving it to you."
---
He laid her on the bed.
The sheets were cool against her heated skin, carrying his scent, wrapping around her like a second skin. She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he climbed onto the mattress, positioning himself between her legs.
"What are you—"
"I told you." He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the inside of her knee. "I'm going to make it right."
His mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of kisses up her thigh. The scratch of his stubble against her sensitive flesh sent shivers racing through her body. By the time he reached her hip, she was trembling.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Don't tease me. Not tonight."
He looked up at her, and there was something in his eyes—something raw and earnest and almost apologetic.
"I'm not teasing," he said. "I'm worshipping."
And then his mouth was on her.
Scarlet cried out, her back arching off the bed. His tongue dragged through her folds, slow and deliberate, tasting her like she was something sacred. He found her clit and circled it with the flat of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to make her see stars.
"Fuck—"
His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, keeping her still. He licked her like he had all the time in the world—long, lazy strokes that brought her right to the edge and then backed off, leaving her gasping and desperate.
"You taste incredible," he murmured against her. "Like rain and honey and something I can't name. Something that's just you."
Scarlet's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to force him to give her what she needed.
But Ollie was in control.
He slid a finger inside her—just one, curling it upward, finding that spot that made her vision white out. He worked it in and out, slow and steady, while his tongue continued its assault on her clit.
"Tell me how it feels," he said.
"Good—fuck—so good—"
"Tell me."
"Perfect." The word came out as a sob. "It feels perfect. Please, Ollie, I'm close—"
He pulled his mouth away.
"No."
Scarlet wanted to scream. Her orgasm hovered just out of reach, a phantom promise that had evaporated the moment he'd stopped. She looked down at him, wild-eyed, furious.
"What the fuck—"
"You said I came and left you hanging." He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. "I'm returning the favor."
"You're—you're punishing me?"
"I'm showing you."
He slid two fingers inside her this time, stretching her, filling her. His thumb found her clit and began to rub slow circles while his fingers curled and twisted, hitting that spot again and again.
"You're going to come," he said. "Eventually. But first, you're going to understand what it feels like to want something so badly it hurts. What it feels like to be denied."
Scarlet's hips bucked against his hand. She was climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building like a dam about to break—
He stopped.
"Ollie—fuck—"
"Not yet."
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to beg him. She wanted to grab his head and force his mouth back onto her, to ride his face until she came so hard she forgot her own name.
But she couldn't move. Her legs were jelly. Her arms were useless. All she could do was lie there, panting, sweating, while he watched her with those dark, soulful eyes.
"You're cruel," she whispered.
"I'm patient."
He lowered his mouth to her again.
---
The next hour was the longest of her life.
Ollie worked her with his hands and his mouth, bringing her to the edge and then pulling back, again and again and again. Each time, he whispered apologies against her skin—sorry, baby, I'm sorry, just a little longer—while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm.
She lost count of how many times he brought her close. Five?Six? More? The world had narrowed to a single point: his hands, his mouth, his voice in her ear telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, how he was going to make her forget every man who came before him.
"You're so wet," he murmured, his fingers moving inside her. "You're soaking my hand, Scar. Can you feel how much your body wants this?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"All those other guys—they never made you feel like this, did they?"
"No—"
"Who makes you feel like this?"
"You—you—"
"Say my name."
"Ollie."
He rewarded her with another minute of his tongue, another minute of pressure building inside her, and then he stopped again.
Scarlet was crying now. Not from sadness, but from sheer, overwhelming frustration. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat at her temples, and she was sobbing with need.
"Please," she begged. "Please, I can't—I need—"
"I know." His voice was gentle now, almost tender. "I know, baby. But I promised to make it right, and this is the only way I know how."
He pulled his fingers out of her, and she whimpered at the loss. But then he was repositioning himself, settling between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"You're going to come with me," he said. "Together. And when you do, you're going to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I'm not leaving this time. That I've waited long enough, and I'm done waiting. That you're mine."
He slid into her.
The stretch was exquisite. He entered her slowly, inch by agonizing inch, letting her feel every ridge and vein and throb of his cock as it filled her. By the time he was fully inside, she was gasping, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes.
"I want you to see who's fucking you," he said. "I want you to remember this when you think about your future. When you think about that ring on your finger. When you think about him."
"I—Ollie—"
"Look at me."
She looked.
He began to move.
The strokes were long and measured—deliberately slow, deliberately deep. Each thrust ended with the head of his cock pressed against her cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through her entire body. Each retreat pulled nearly all the way out before sliding back in with agonizing precision.
"You feel that?" he asked.
"Y-yes—"
"Your cunt is squeezing me so tight. Like it knows. Like it's been waiting for me."
Scarlet couldn't form words anymore. She could only feel—the slide of his cock inside her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the tangle of his fingers with hers above her head.
"I've been waiting too," he said. "Ten years. Ten years of watching you run away from this, from us, from the only thing that's ever been real. Do you have any idea how much that hurt?"
A tear slid down her cheek.
"Ollie—"
"I'm not saying this to hurt you." He kissed the tear away. "I'm saying this because I need you to understand. You're not the only one who's been afraid."
He sped up.
The measured strokes dissolved into something rougher, more desperate. His hips began to piston against hers, driving deep, and now she could hear him—low grunts punched out of his chest with every thrust, a rhythm of pleasure that matched her own.
"I'm close," he breathed. "I'm—fuck—I'm close, Scar—"
"Together," she gasped. "You said—"
"I know." He clenched his jaw, visibly fighting for control. "Wait for me."
The pressure was unbearable. She was on the edge, teetering, and every thrust was threatening to send her over. But she held on—for him, for this, for the promise he'd made.
"Now," he said.
She let go.
The orgasm ripped through her like lightning—sharp and bright and devastating. She screamed his name, her body convulsing around his, and the moment she clamped down on his cock, he shattered.
He came with a groan that was almost a sob, his hips stuttering, his release spilling into her in hot, endless pulses. His whole body trembled above her, arms shaking, and she held him through it—wrapping her arms around his back, pulling him close, feeling his heart slam against her ribs.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The rain kept falling. The city hummed beyond the windows. The world continued its slow, indifferent turning.
But here, in this room, something had shifted.
Ollie raised his head. His eyes were wet.
"You came," he said.
"You sent the address."
He laughed—a broken, beautiful sound. "That's not what I meant."
She knew what he meant.
"I know," she said.
He kissed her then—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that made promises neither of them was ready to speak aloud. When he pulled back, he was still inside her, still hard, still connected.
"Greedy," she murmured.
"Always."
He began to move again—slow, this time, almost lazy. A leisurely rhythm that was more about holding on than letting go.
"This doesn't fix anything," she whispered. "You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Marcus.The wedding. The planner. The whole—" She gestured vaguely. "—thing."
"I know."
"So what now?"
He kissed her again. Deeper this time. His tongue sliding against hers with a familiarity that felt like home.
"Now," he said, "we do that again. And then we talk."
"And then?"
"And then you decide."
"Decide what?"
He looked at her—those soulful brown eyes, dark with want and worse with hope—and smiled.
"Whether you're going to keep running," he said. "Or whether you're finally going to choose the thing that's been right in front of you all along."
He began to move faster.
They didn't speak again for a long time.
They didn't speak again for a long time.
His weight pressed her into the mattress—chest against her spine, hips flush against her ass, breath hot and uneven against the back of her neck. Inside her, he was still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, and every small movement sent a fresh ripple of pleasure through her oversensitized cunt. She could feel his heartbeat against her shoulder blade.Fast. Erratic. Nothing like the controlled, patient man who'd spent an hour edging her into oblivion.
"Your heart's racing," she murmured.
"So's yours."
He shifted his hips. Just slightly. Just enough.
Scarlet hissed through her teeth.
"Don't," she warned. "I can't—not again—"
"You can." He pressed a kiss to the notch at the base of her skull. "You just don't want to admit it yet."
She wanted to argue. She wanted to push him off, roll out of bed, gather her soaked clothes from the floor, and drive home to the apartment she shared with a man who'd never made her feel like this. A man who'd never tied her to his headboard and left her aching. A man who'd never sent a single, cryptic address at 2:47 in the morning and waited to see if she'd come.
She stayed exactly where she was.
"I hate you," she said.
"No, you don't."
"I do. I really, genuinely do."
"You hate that you don't." He pulled out slowly, and she winced at the loss—the wet, obscene sound of their bodies separating, the sudden emptiness. "That's different."
He rolled off her, and the mattress dipped with his weight. Scarlet stayed on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, breathing in the scent of him that had seeped into the fabric. Sweat and sex and something underneath that was just Oliver. Just Ollie. Just the boy who'd crawled through her bedroom window when they were eighteen and never really left.
The rain kept falling. Heavier now. A steady drumroll against the glass that filled the silence between them.
"We need to talk," she said into the pillow.
"We will."
"Now, Ollie. We need to talk now."
"Give me five minutes." He reached over, his hand finding the curve of her ass, palm settling there like it belonged. "I'm still trying to remember how to breathe."
She laughed despite herself. A short, sharp sound muffled by cotton. "That good?"
"You have no idea."
"I have some idea."
He squeezed her ass. Not hard. Just enough to make her squirm.
"Five minutes," he said again.
Scarlet closed her eyes.
---
The five minutes stretched into ten. Then fifteen.
She didn't move. Neither did he. They lay side by side in the wreckage of his unmade bed, the sheets tangled around their legs, the pillowcases damp with sweat. The pendant lamp above them cast a warm, amber glow over everything—over the exposed brick, over the rain-streaked windows, over the two bodies that had just spent an hour tearing each other apart.
Scarlet's mind, freed from the immediacy of physical sensation, began to spin.
Marcus. The name hit her like a cold splash of water. Marcus, who proposed six months ago with a ring he'd designed himself. Marcus, who had never once raised his voice at her, never once made her feel uncertain, never once looked at her like he was starving and she was the only thing on the menu. Marcus, who was probably, at this very moment, sitting in their apartment, scrolling through catering options on his laptop, waiting for her to come home.
She glanced down at her left hand.
The ring was still there. A simple platinum band with a single emerald-cut diamond. Elegant. Tasteful. Exactly the kind of ring a woman like Scarlet was supposed to wear. The kind of ring that said she'd made smart choices, sensible choices, choices that would lead to a sensible life with a sensible man who'd never leave her hanging, never make her beg, never send cryptic addresses at 2:47 in the morning and wait to see if she'd show up like some lovesick idiot.
"You're thinking about him."
Ollie's voice was quiet. Not accusatory. Just observant.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"You get this crease between your eyebrows." He reached over, tracing the spot with his thumb. "Right here. Like you're trying to solve a math problem."
"Maybe I am."
"What's the problem?"
Scarlet turned her head to look at him. He was on his side, facing her, propped up on one elbow. The light caught the angles of his face—the strong jaw, the crooked nose he'd broken twice playing rugby, the brown eyes that had been her undoing since she was eighteen years old and stupid and desperate to feel something real.
"The problem," she said, "is that I have a fiancé. A ring on my finger. A wedding planner with a binder full of color swatches and seating charts. A future that I've spent months building—and it doesn't include you."
Ollie didn't flinch. He just watched her. Patient. Always so patient.
"And yet," he said.
"And yet I'm here. Naked. In your bed. Having just fucked you for the second time in a week."
"Third, if you count the storeroom."
"That was—"
"Clothed sex." He raised an eyebrow. "Still counts."
Scarlet groaned, rolling onto her back. The ceiling above her was old wood, crisscrossed with beams, the kind of ceiling that had seen a hundred years of secrets. She felt like one of them now. Just another secret in a long line of secrets, buried in the rafters of a converted factory.
"I can't do this," she said.
"You already did."
"That's not—" She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I mean I can't keep doing this. Sneaking around. Lying to Marcus. Showing up at your apartment in the rain like some desperate, pathetic—"
"Gorgeous. Desperate, maybe. But not pathetic."
"Ollie—"
"You showed up." He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. "You got the address and you got in your car and you drove across the city in a fucking rainstorm to get here. You could have deleted the message. You could have blocked my number. You could have stayed home with your fiancé and planned your perfect wedding and pretended I didn't exist."
She sat up too, clutching the sheet to her chest. A useless gesture. He'd already seen everything.
"But you didn't," he said. "You came."
"I came because I needed to—to end this. For good."
"Did you?"
Scarlet opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Because from where I'm sitting," Ollie continued, "it looked a lot like you came because you couldn't stay away. Because the thought of never seeing me again felt worse than the thought of lying to Marcus for the rest of your life."
"That's not fair."
"None of this is fair." He leaned forward, close enough that she could smell herself on his skin. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to fall in love with a woman who was always going to leave me for someone safer?"
The words hit her like a physical blow.
"Love?" she whispered.
Ollie went still.
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then he reached for her. Slow. Deliberate. His hand found her cheek, fingers sliding into her hair, tilting her face toward his. His eyes were dark with something raw and unguarded—the same look she'd seen in the storeroom, the same look she'd seen that morning in the house, the same look that had been haunting her for ten years.
"I've loved you since I was eighteen years old," he said. "I've loved you through every boyfriend you ever had, every engagement you ever announced, every time you told me you were done with me and then showed up at my door six months later. I've loved you when you didn't deserve it, when I didn't want to, when loving you felt like cutting myself open and bleeding out."
Scarlet's chest ached. Her throat burned. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed.
"Ollie—"
"Let me finish."
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
"I'm not asking you to choose me right now. I'm not asking you to call off your wedding or throw your ring in the river or run away with me to some island where no one knows our names. I know you need time. I know you need to figure out what you actually want, not what you think you should want."
His thumb traced the curve of her jaw.
"But I need you to know," he said, "that I'm done hiding. I'm done being your secret. I'm done waiting for you to show up in the middle of the night and then disappear before sunrise. If you're going to leave me again—and you probably will, because that's what you do—at least have the decency to look me in the eye and tell me why."
The rain hammered against the windows.
Scarlet stared at him.
"You're wrong," she said."About what?"
"About me leaving. I don't—I don't do that."
"You don't?"
"No. I mean, I—" She stopped. Frowned. "I don't leave you. I show up. I show up and I take what I need and then I—"
"Leave."
"That's not the same thing."
"How is it not the same thing?"
She didn't have an answer. Because he was right. She showed up when she needed him—when the storm was bad enough, when Marcus was out of town, when the weight of her normal, sensible, perfectly adequate life became too much to bear. But when the storm passed, she was always gone.
"I don't do it to hurt you," she said quietly."I know."
"I do it to protect us. Both of us. Because if I stay, if I actually—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "If I let myself have you, really have you, then you'll figure it out. You'll realize I'm not worth it. You'll see all the ways I'm broken and messy and complicated and you'll leave just like everyone else does."
Ollie was silent for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
Not a mean laugh. Not a mocking laugh. A soft, almost sad laugh that made her want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"What?" she demanded.
"You're an idiot," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"A gorgeous, complicated, infuriating idiot." He shook his head. "You act like I don't know you're broken. I've known you since you were eighteen, Scar. I know about your dad. I know about your mom. I know about the thing with your uncle that you've never told anyone else. I know about every panic attack, every existential crisis, every time you convinced yourself you were unlovable because you've spent your whole life pushing people away before they could push you."
Scarlet's breath caught in her throat.
"You—"
"I know you," he said. "And I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere."
The tears came then. She couldn't stop them. They slid down her cheeks in hot, silent rivulets, dripping onto the sheet, onto her hands, onto the emerald-cut diamond that felt like a lie.
Ollie pulled her into his arms.
She let him.
---
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The rain kept falling, the city kept humming, the world kept turning. Inside the loft, Scarlet cried into Ollie's chest while he held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other wrapped around her back. He didn't say anything. He didn't offer platitudes or reassurances. He just held her.
When she finally pulled back, her face was a mess. Mascara smudged, eyes puffy, nose running. She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, and Ollie caught her wrist.
"Stop," he said. "You're beautiful."
"I look like a raccoon."
"A beautiful raccoon."
She laughed. A wet, ugly sound, but a laugh nonetheless.
"I hate you," she said.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
He kissed her forehead. Then her nose. Then her mouth—soft, gentle, nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses they'd been trading all night.
"What happened to your plan?" she asked against his lips.
"What plan?"
"Worship me for an hour, make me forget every man who came before you, prove that you're the only one who can—"
"I got distracted." He pulled back, looking at her with those dark, soulful eyes. "For another round. If you're up for it."
Scarlet's body responded before her brain could catch up. A flush of heat, a clench of muscles, a dampness between her thighs that had nothing to do with tears.
"Ollie—"
"I'm serious." He pushed her back onto the mattress, kneeling between her legs. "You said we needed to talk. We talked. Now I want to finish what I started."
"Finish what you—"
"Proving it." He leaned down, kissing her collarbone. "Proving that you're mine. Proving that I'm yours. Proving that no matter how many times you run away, I'll always be here when you come back."
He flipped her onto her stomach.
The movement was sudden but controlled—his hands on her hips, his body covering hers, pinning her to the mattress. She felt the weight of him pressing her down, the heat of his chest against her back, the hardness of his cock against her ass.
"What are you—"
"Shh."
He reached between them, guiding himself to her entrance. She was wet—God, she was so wet—and he slid inside her with almost no resistance, filling her completely in one slow, deliberate thrust.
Scarlet gasped.
"This is how I wanted to fuck you the first time," he murmured against her ear. "When we were eighteen. When I used to lie in my bed and imagine what it would be like to have you underneath me, to hold you down, to make you take every inch of me until you couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel."
He pulled out slowly, then slammed back in.
She cried out.
"But I was too careful back then." Another thrust, just as hard. "Too patient. Too afraid of scaring you away." Another. "But you're not eighteen anymore. And neither am I."
He set a rhythm—deep, rapid thrusts that punched the air from her lungs with every stroke. His hips slapped against her ass, the sound obscene and wet, and she could feel every inch of his cock dragging along her walls.
"You like that?" he asked.
"Fuck—yes—"
"You like being fucked like this? Being pinned down, held in place, taken like you belong to me?"
"Ollie—"
"Say it."
"I belong to you."
He groaned, his rhythm stuttering for just a moment. Then he slowed—grinding his hips in slow, deliberate circles, the tip of his cock pressing deep, deeper, trying to pry open places she'd kept locked away.
Scarlet's eyes rolled back.
"Oh, God—"
"You feel that?" He ground against her, relentless. "You feel how deep I am? How there's nowhere left for you to hide?"
She couldn't answer. She couldn't breathe. The pressure was building again—that familiar coil tightening in her core, threatening to snap.
He pulled back. Slammed in.
Fast. Hard. Then slow. Grinding.
He alternated—rapid thrusts that made her see stars, then slow circles that made her sob with need. Again and again and again. Until she was nothing but a mess of sensation, a body made only for him, a thing that existed only to be filled and emptied and filled again.
"I'm close," he said. "I'm so close, Scar. Are you with me?"
"Yes—yes—don't stop—"
"I'm not stopping." His voice was ragged now, broken. "I'm never stopping. I'm never letting you go."
He sped up.
The bed creaked beneath them. The rain continued its assault on the windows. The pendant lamp swayed, casting shadows that danced like demons across the walls.
And then—Ollie's hips changed rhythm. Slowed. Ground in circles. His cock pressed deep, deeper, the tip pushing against her cervix with deliberate, relentless pressure.
Scarlet's mouth opened. No sound came out.
He circled his hips again. And again.And again. Grinding the tip of his cock against places she'd never known existed, forcing her body open in ways she hadn't thought possible.
She came.
It was different from before—not a sharp, bright explosion, but a deep, rolling wave that started in her cunt and radiated outward, overwhelming every nerve, every cell, every thought. She heard herself moan—a guttural, animal sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside her body—and her eyes rolled back, white and blind and unseeing.
Ollie came with her.
His hips ground in circles against her ass, his cock twitching and pulsing inside her, filling her with heat. He groaned—long and low and broken—and his hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The rain kept falling.
The world kept turning.
And Scarlet, pinned beneath the weight of the man she'd been running from for ten years, finally stopped running.