Chapter 2: Confrontation
Joe wiped the blood from his split knuckle with a grimy shop rag, his chest still heaving from the fight, and then he grabbed Kortney's wrist—firm, unyielding—and pulled her toward the bedroom without a word. He stopped at the foot of the bed, let go of her, and stared at her with those sharp, burning eyes that she'd never seen before as he said, flat and low, "Get naked. Lie on the bed. And tell me everything he did to you—every last detail."
Kortney's breath hitched, her skin prickling with a confusing mixture of shame and something darker, something that coiled low in her belly as she watched Joe unbuckle his belt with deliberate, unhurried movements. He shrugged off his work shirt, the fabric sliding over his tattoos, and she caught the flex of his shoulders in the dim light from the hallway, a raw power in his stance that made her mouth go dry. She slid out of her leggings and t-shirt, her hands trembling as she crawled onto the bed, the sheets cool against her overheated skin, and lay back with her legs pressed together. Joe stood at the foot of the bed, naked now, his cock already hard, and his eyes raked over her body with a possessive hunger that made her gasp. "Wait," she breathed, propping herself up on her elbows, "you're turned on by this? You're not mad?" He stepped closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and his voice came out low and rough as he said, "I never said that, baby, but first you're going to suck my cock like you did with his—and you're going to tell me every single detail while you do it."
He stepped closer, the mattress dipping under his weight, and his voice came out low and rough as he said, "I never said that, baby, but first you're going to suck my cock like you did with his—and you're going to tell me every single detail while you do it."
Kortney's throat went dry. She stared up at him, at the hard set of his jaw, the way his pupils had blown wide and dark, swallowing the warm brown she knew so well. This was Joe—her Joe, the man who brought her Thai food after long shifts and laughed at his own dumb jokes. But this wasn't the Joe she knew. This was something else entirely, something that made her thighs press together of their own accord.
"Joe," she started, her voice cracking, "I don't understand—"
"You don't have to understand." He knelt on the bed, his knees bracketing her hips, and his voice dropped to a velvet growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "You just have to do it. And you're going to be honest with me, Kort. Every time he touched you, every time he made you moan—I want to hear it. I want to know exactly what he did to take what's mine."
She should have felt humiliated. She should have been crying, begging for forgiveness, pleading with him to see how sorry she was. But instead, she felt a slow, molten heat pooling low in her belly, a heat that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with the way Joe was looking at her. Like he had already forgiven her, and now he just wanted to own her again.
"Okay," she whispered, reaching up to touch his chest. Her fingers traced the ink that covered his sternum, the eagle and the roses and the words she'd watched him get inked years ago, back when they were still new. "Okay, Joe. I'll tell you everything."
"Good girl." He leaned down and kissed her, hard and demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like he was staking a claim. And then he pulled back, settling onto his heels, his cock standing thick and urgent between them. "Now. Show me what you did for him. But I'll be watching—and you'll be talking."
Kortney pushed herself up, her hands trembling as she reached for him. She wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft, feeling the weight of him, the familiar heat, and a small, breathless sound escaped her lips. He was thicker than Trent. She'd never measured, never compared, but she knew it now with absolute certainty—the stretch of her hand around him was different, fuller.
She leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
The taste of him flooded her senses—salt and skin and something clean underneath, a hint of the soap he used in the garage sink. She hollowed her cheeks and pulled him deeper, her tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside, and a low groan rumbled from Joe's chest. His hand came down to cradle the back of her head, not pushing, just resting there, a reminder that he was present, that he was watching.
"Tell me," he said, his voice strained. "When you did this to him—how did he taste?"
Kortney pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing against his slick skin. "He didn't taste like you." She swirled her tongue around the head, savoring the way Joe's hips bucked involuntarily. "He was smoother, cleaner. But he was smaller. I could take all of him without even trying, and he—he liked that. He called me a natural."
Joe's jaw clenched. His fingers tightened in her hair, a possessive grip that made her gasp. "And when he fucked your mouth, how did that feel? Did you like it?"
"I did," she admitted, the confession spilling out of her like a dam breaking. "God, Joe, I hate myself for it, but I did. He held my head just like this, but gentler. He didn't pull my hair or push me down. He just let me take him at my own pace, and he kept telling me how pretty I looked with my lips wrapped around him."
"Did he come in your mouth?"
"Yes." The word was thick in her throat. "He pulled out and came on my face. He wiped it off with a towel and kissed my forehead, and he told me I did so well."
Joe let out a breath that was almost a snarl. He gripped her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was low and trembling. "Then you're going to do the same for me. But I'm not pulling out. You're going to swallow every last drop, because you're mine, Kortney. Do you understand?"
She nodded, a fresh wave of heat washing through her. "Yes, Joe."
He pushed himself off the bed, then, and she scrambled to follow his lead as he positioned her on her hands and knees. His hands ran over her ass, squeezing the round cheeks with a roughness that was almost painful, and a desperate little sound escaped her. He had never grabbed her like this before. He had always been careful, sweet, respectful. But this was something else.
"Now," he said, settling behind her, his cock pressing against her dripping entrance. "Fuck me like you fucked him. And I want you to tell me exactly how it felt when he was inside you."
She braced herself on her elbows, looking back at him through a curtain of hair. "He was thinner than you. He didn't fill me up the way you do. When he slid into me, it was easy—too easy. I barely felt him."
Joe slammed into her in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and she cried out. He was a wall inside her, stretching her, filling her in a way that made stars burst behind her eyes. He held still for a heartbeat, letting her feel every inch, and then he began to move in long, deep strokes that had her nails clawing at the sheets.
"Tell me," he bit out. "When he fucked you, what did you think about?"
"I thought about you." The confession tore from her lips, raw and ragged. "I closed my eyes and pretended it was you, and I told myself it was okay because in my head, it was your hands on my body, your cock inside me. But it wasn't you. It was him, and he was smaller, and he didn't hit the spot the way you do—"
Joe cursed, a string of profanity that would have made her blush if she weren't already burning from the inside out. He grabbed her hips, angling her, and the next thrust hit that spot dead-on, making her see white. "Say my name," he demanded. "Say my name and tell me you want it more. Tell me you want me more than you ever wanted him."
"I want you more," she gasped, her voice pitching higher with every word. "God, Joe, I want you so much more. He didn't make me feel like this. He didn't make me come like this—"
"Like what?" He drove into her harder, rhythm faltering, his breath coming in hot, ragged pants against her ear. He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth at her ear as he whispered, "Tell me exactly what he did to make you come."
She was unraveling. Her hands twisted in the sheets, her body arching against his, and the words tumbled out in a desperate rush. "He used his fingers first. He made me lie on the massage table and he fingered me until I came. He was gentle, so gentle, and he kept telling me how perfect I was. And then—and then he made me suck him, and then he fucked me from behind, and I came again when he—when he reached around and touched me—"
"Did he make you come from his cock alone?" Joe gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead, his strokes becoming shorter, harder.
"No," she sobbed. "He couldn't. He wasn't big enough to hit the spot, and he was too quick. He came before I was even close, and he had to finish me with his mouth."
Joe pulled out, and she made a sound of protest, but he grabbed her and flipped her onto her back. He positioned himself over her, his eyes wild, and slammed back into her, his hands gripping her thighs as he spread them wide. "Then I'm going to make you come from my cock alone. And you're going to look me in the eye when you do."
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sensation made her gasp. Every stroke was a revelation. He filled her in a way Trent never had—a way she had never even realized was possible. The thickness of him stretched her just right, and the way he angled his hips sent that sweet spot into oblivion every single time.
"You feel that?" he growled, his hand sliding down to press his thumb against her clit. "That's mine. All of it. He may have touched you, but he never had you. You understand?"
"Yes," she cried, her climax building with terrifying speed. "Yes, Joe, I understand—"
"Tell me you want it," he demanded. "Tell me you want me to fuck you until you forget his name."
"I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name." She was so close, hanging on the edge of a precipice, her body trembling. "Please, Joe, I need it. I need you—"
He drove into her one last time and held, his thumb circling her clit with ruthless focus, and she shattered. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, tearing a scream from her throat that was louder than anything she'd ever made before. Her body convulsed around him, squeezing him, and the sensation pushed him over the edge. He came with a ragged, primal shout, and she felt him pulse inside her, deep and hot and utterly, completely hers.
They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, the ceiling fan spinning overhead. Joe pulled her against his chest, his lips pressed to her forehead, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy with everything they'd said, everything they'd done.
"Kort," he finally said, his voice hoarse. "What was his schedule again? Fridays at one?"
She nodded, her ear against his heartbeat. "That's what I agreed to."
Joe was quiet for a long moment. She felt his chest rise and fall, steady and slow, and then his voice came out low and measured. "Okay. We're going to keep that appointment. Next Friday, you're going to let him do whatever he wants."
She pushed herself up, staring at him with wide eyes. "What? Joe, I can't—"
"You can," he said, catching her face in his hands. "And I'll be there. Hiding in the next room. Watching through the door."
"You want to watch him touch me?" Her voice was thin, uncertain. "You want to see that?"
"I want to see it." His jaw set, and something dark and possessive flickered in his eyes. "And when it's over, you're going to come to me, and I'm going to make you forget him again. Every time. For as long as you want."
Kortney stared at him, her heart pounding. She should have said no. She should have drawn a line. But the look in his eyes—the fire, the hunger, the claim—made something inside her stir. She thought about Trent's smooth hands, his practiced words. And she thought about Joe's rough fingers, his desperate, unpolished need.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, Joe. Next Friday."
He pulled her closer, and his kiss was slow, deep, and full of unspoken promises.