Chapter 12: Three More Times, Then Nothing
He didn't pull out.
His cock stayed buried inside her, twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and she felt every pulse like a second heartbeat. His breath came hot against her ear, ragged and uneven, and his weight pressed her deeper into the mat.
"Don't move," he said.
She wasn't moving. Couldn't. Her body had turned to liquid, boneless and heavy, every nerve ending still sparking from the orgasm that had ripped through her.
"I'm not done with you," he whispered.
A shiver ran down her spine. Not fear. Not quite. Something darker. Something hungrier.
"Victor—"
"Shh."
He shifted behind her. His hands found her hips. And then he was rolling her onto her side, his body curving around hers, his chest pressed to her back, his legs tangling with hers.
Spooning.
Intimate.
She'd never done this with Robert. Not once in twelve years of marriage. Her husband preferred her on her back, eyes closed, waiting for it to be over. This—this was different. This was someone who wanted to feel her, not just fuck her.
Victor's arm slid under her head. His other hand gripped her thigh, lifting her leg, opening her up.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"Are you serious right now?"
"I'm always serious about comfort."
"Liar."
He laughed. Low and warm against her neck.
Then he started to move.
Slow strokes. Deep. Deliberate. His cock dragged against her inner walls, hitting something that made her gasp every time he bottomed out. He wasn't rushing. Wasn't chasing his own pleasure. He was savoring her.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Good?"
"Yes—"
"Tell me how good."
She couldn't. Words were gone. Just sensation. Just the slow, steady rhythm of him filling her, leaving her, filling her again. His hand slid from her thigh to her stomach, fingers splayed, holding her against him like he was afraid she'd disappear.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "That's my cock inside you. That's me. No one else."
"Victor—"
"Say it."
"It's you."
"Say my name."
"It's you, Victor."
He groaned. His hips sped up. Not fast—still slow, still deliberate—but harder. Each thrust pushed a little sound out of her. A whimper. A moan. A broken little cry that she couldn't contain.
His lips found her shoulder. Kissed. Licked. Bit down just hard enough to leave a mark.
"Come for me again," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can."
"I just—"
"Again."
His hand slid down. Fingers found her clit. Started circling. Slow. Teasing. Matching the rhythm of his hips.
She shattered.
The second orgasm was different from the first. Less violent. More like a wave. It rolled through her, slow and deep, pulling a long moan from somewhere in her chest. Her pussy clenched around his cock, milking him, and she felt him twitch inside her.
"There it is," he said. "Good girl."
She was crying. When had she started crying? Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks, pooling on the mat beneath her head.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"I don't know."
"Then I'll keep going."
He didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just kept fucking her with that same steady rhythm, his fingers still working her clit, his cock still hitting that spot inside her that made her see white.
The third orgasm came faster. Harder. She screamed—actually screamed—and clawed at the mat, her nails digging into the blue foam, her body convulsing in his arms.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Again."
"I can't—"
"Again."
He flipped her over.
She landed on her back, limp and gasping, and before she could catch her breath, he was pushing her knees up to her chest. Folding her. Spreading her open. She looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes and saw something on his face she hadn't seen before.
Not hunger.
Not lust.
Something softer. Something that looked almost like pain.
"Victor," she said.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."
He pushed into her.
The angle was different. Deeper. He bottomed out and kept going, pressing against something that made her whimper. His hips rolled in a rhythm that never faltered. Not fast. Not slow. Just there. Just relentless.
He leaned down. Kissed her neck. Her collarbone. Her left nipple. Sucked it into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue while his cock kept moving inside her.
"Tender," she managed. "You're being—tender."
"Is that a problem?"
"No."
"Good."
He kissed her other nipple. Then her sternum. Then her jaw. Then her mouth. Soft kisses. Gentle kisses. Kisses that felt like something she wasn't supposed to have.
His hips never stopped.
She came again.
Fourth time. Or fifth. She'd lost count. Each one had blurred into the next, leaving her raw and oversensitive and utterly wrecked. Her thighs were slick with their combined fluids. Her wedding ring caught the light as her hand twitched uselessly at her side.
"You're mine," he said against her mouth.
She didn't answer.
"Say it."
"I—"
"Say you're mine."
"I'm married."
"I don't care."
"Victor—"
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
He groaned. Something raw and desperate. His hips stuttered. His cock swelled. And then he was coming again—second time, third time, fourth, she couldn't tell—pumping into her with a force that bordered on violence.
The warmth of it spread through her. Marked her. Claimed her.
When he finally pulled out, she felt empty. Cold. Like someone had carved something out of her and left the hollow behind.
Victor stood.
She watched him from the floor. He looked down at her with an expression she couldn't read. Something between triumph and regret.
"You left me on the shower floor," he said.
His voice was soft. But there was an edge under it. Something sharp. Something that cut.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Didn't know what to say.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
He didn't wait for one.
He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame. His back was to her—that perfect, sculpted back that she'd spent months watching in the mirror, pretending she wasn't looking.
"I'll be in my room if you need me," he said.
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Melissa was alone.
She lay there on the blue mat, staring at the ceiling, her breath slowly evening out. The mirrors showed her everything. The flush on her chest. The sweat cooling on her skin. The come dripping down her thigh. The marks he'd left on her shoulder. The mess they'd made.
Everything.
She should feel ashamed. Disgusted. Guilty.
She sat up slowly. Her body protested—muscles she'd forgotten she had aching in ways they never had before. She looked at her reflection.
Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was gone. There was a smear of something on her cheek she didn't want to identify.
And she was smiling.
Not a small smile. Not a polite smile. A real one. The kind that hurt her face. The kind she hadn't worn in years.
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
She could still taste him.
Fuck.
She should go after him. Should tell him this was a mistake. Should do the sensible thing—the married thing—and pretend it had never happened.
Instead, she stayed on the floor.
The mirrors showed her everything, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn't mind what they showed. She was wrecked. She was ruined. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time, tears streaming down her face, her wedding ring catching the light as her hand trembled at her side.
She'd left him on the shower floor.
And now she knew how it felt.
Her phone buzzed on the floor somewhere. She didn't check it. Didn't want to know what Robert had to say. Didn't want to think about her husband—not now, not here, not with Victor's come still leaking out of her onto the mat.
She made a decision.
She couldn't make herself regret it.
She wrapped her arms around her knees. Rocked back and forth. Let the tears come. Let the laugh come. Let the chaos of what she'd just done settle into something like acceptance.
You're mine.
His voice in her head.
Say you're mine.
She hadn't hesitated.
That was the worst part. The best part. The part that terrified her most.
She was going to go to him. Not tonight—she needed to gather herself first. But soon. Tomorrow. The day after. Whenever the ache in her body subsided enough for her to walk without trembling.
She was going to go to him.
Because he was right.
She was his.
The thought should have scared her more than it did.
Instead, she buried her face in her knees and let herself feel it. All of it. The guilt. The shame. The satisfaction. The wanting. The goddamned unbearable joy of being wanted back.
The mirrors watched.
She didn't care.