Chapter 5: The Winner's Claim
The door clicked shut, and the world shrank to the size of Jenny’s room. The sudden quiet was a physical thing, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hiss of the candle wicks and the ragged sound of their breathing.
Jenny let go of his hand. She stood there, her back against the door, as if barricading them in. Or maybe keeping herself from running. The paralegal composure was gone, stripped away by the audacity of her own winning hand. Her eyes were huge in the flickering golden light.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, almost to herself.
Aidan just watched her. The adrenaline from the living room was still buzzing in his veins, mixing with a deep, aching need. But he waited. This was her prize.Her rules.
“I’ve never…” She trailed off, pushing a hand through her chaotic curls. “I mean, I’ve done this. Obviously. But not… not like this. Not with a… a plan.” She let out a shaky laugh. “God, I wrote ‘total submission.’ What does that even mean?”
“It means whatever you want it to mean,” Aidan said, his voice low. He took a small step forward. The carpet was soft under his bare feet. “You won, Jen. The pot’s yours.”
She looked at him then, really looked, her gaze traveling over his face, his shoulders, down his chest and stomach. She lingered there, where he was still hard and wanting from the sight of her in the living room, from the sheer madness of the last hour. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, the confession rushing out. “I’m the one who tells Cat to stop buying junk food with the rent money. I’m the one who makes spreadsheets for utility bills. I don’t… take people. As prizes.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
“I always overthink it!” she said, a flare of frustration in her voice. “That’s my whole thing. I think, and I plan, and I make lists. And now there’s no list. There’s just you. And me. And that.” She gestured vaguely toward him.
He moved closer, until he was within reach. The vanilla scent of the candles was cloying, mixed with the saltier, more intimate smell of her skin. “So stop thinking.”
Her hand came up, tentatively, and rested flat on his chest. He could feel the heat of her palm, the slight tremor in her fingers. She pushed, gently. He took a step back. She pushed again, more firmly this time, guiding him until the backs of his knees hit the edge of her mattress.
“Sit,” she said.
He sat. The blankets were a soft chaos beneath him.
She stood over him, a silhouette against the fairy lights. For a long moment, she just looked, her expression unreadable. Then she climbed onto the bed, one knee on either side of his hips, hovering above him. Her thighs brushed against his sides. She placed her hands on his shoulders. Her touch was warm, solid.
“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Okay. I want to be on top.”
“You are on top,” he said.
“No, I mean… I want to be in control. That’s my thing, right? Cowgirl.” She said the word with a forced casualness, like she was testing it out. “I want to… set the pace.”
“Then set it.”
She leaned down and kissed him. It wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss he might have expected. It was hungry, full of the night’s pent-up tension and the triumph of her royal flush. Her teeth scraped his lower lip, her tongue pushed into his mouth, and a low groan vibrated in his throat. Her hands fisted in his messy hair, holding him in place.
When she broke away, they were both breathing hard. She shifted back, her eyes locked on his as her hands slid down his chest, over his stomach. Her fingers wrapped around him, and she let out a sharp, quiet gasp at the feel of him, thick and heavy in her grip.
“Jesus, Aidan,” she murmured, more wonder than complaint.
She lifted herself up, positioning him. She was wet—he could feel the heat of her as she notched the head of his cock against her. For a second, she paused, her body tense with anticipation and a flicker of fear. She bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Then she sank down.
It was a slow, breathtaking descent. She took him inch by excruciating inch, her head falling back, a choked-off moan escaping her throat. She was tight, impossibly so, and so hot he saw stars. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” she gasped, when he was fully seated inside her. She didn’t move, just trembled, letting her body adjust. “Fuck, that’s… a lot.”
He couldn’t speak. His hands came up to grip her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin. He forced himself to be still, to let her lead.
Jenny began to move. It was hesitant at first, an experimental rock of her hips. Then she found a rhythm, lifting herself up almost all the way before sliding back down, her curls bouncing around her shoulders with the motion. Each downward stroke forced a soft “uh” sound from her lips.
She was right. She was in control. She set the angle, the depth, the speed. Her eyes were open, watching his face, learning what made his breath catch, what made his grip tighten. A strange, powerful focus settled over her features, the same one she got when dissecting a complex legal brief. But her breath was coming in ragged pants now, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on her collarbones.
“Is this…” she started, her voice trembling with the motion of her body. “Is this what you imagined? When you looked at me?”
“Yes,” he grunted. “And no.”
“What… what does that mean?”
“It’s better.” He bucked his hips up to meet her next downstroke, and she cried out, her control slipping for a second. “You’re better. More.”
A wild smile touched her lips. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, changing the angle. The new position drove him deeper, and she moaned, long and low. Her pace increased, becoming less measured, more desperate. The headboard began a faint, rhythmic tap against the wall.
The analytical shell was gone, shattered by sensation. Her moans were uninhibited, pleading. “Right there, oh god, right there, don’t stop, A, please…”
He let go of one of her hips and brought his hand between them, his thumb finding her clit. She jerked, a sharp, broken cry tearing from her throat. Her rhythm fell apart entirely, becoming a frantic, rolling grind.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” she gasped, her eyes screwing shut.
“Do it,” he urged, his own climax coiling tight in his gut. “Take it. You won it, Jenny. Take it.”
Her orgasm hit her like a seizure. Her whole body clenched around him, a series of pulsing, rhythmic squeezes that milked him relentlessly. Her cry was muffled against his shoulder, her teeth sinking into his skin as she rode the waves.
The sensation tore his own release from him. He held her hips down, burying himself to the hilt as he came, a deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest. Pleasure obliterated thought, leaving only heat and the crushing pressure of her body and the dizzying scent of her sweat and vanilla.
For a long time, the only sounds were their slowing breaths and the pop of a candle.
Jenny went boneless, collapsing onto his chest. They were both slick and sticky. Her heart hammered against his ribcage, a frantic echo of his own. He kept his arms around her, one hand absently stroking the damp skin of her back.
The flickering light played over the curve of her shoulder, the discarded puzzle pieces on the table, the mountain of blankets now tangled at their feet.
“Well,” she finally mumbled into his skin, her voice rough and spent. “That was item one on the non-existent list.”
A breath of laughter shook his chest. “How was it?”
She was silent for a moment. Then she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him. Her curls were a wild halo, her lips swollen, her eyes soft and stunned. The vulnerability was back, but it was quieter now. Settled.
“It was a winning hand,” she said simply.
From somewhere in the apartment, they heard the distinct sound of the living room TV click on, followed by the muffled, exaggerated laugh of Catriona. The real world, with its complications and its other roommates, was still right outside the door.
Jenny didn’t move. She just rested her forehead against his, her breathing slowly syncing with his, in the fragile, temporary kingdom of her bed.