Chapter 16: Worship in the Bedroom
The polished concrete floor was cold and unforgiving against her knees. Eli’s grip on her hand tightened, not to hurt, but to tether, as if he feared the bare room might swallow her whole. His other hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her there as he looked into her eyes, searching for a lie, a flicker of hesitation.
He found none.
A low groan escaped him, part defeat, part liberation. He crushed his mouth to hers. This kiss was nothing like the first in Vittorio’s closet. That had been exploration. This was consumption. It was hot, deep, and brutally honest, his tongue sweeping against hers with a feverish urgency that tasted of the endless, lonely nights in this beautiful cage. She met him with equal force, her hands fisting in the soft wool of his sweater, pushing it up over the hard planes of his stomach, his chest.
He broke the kiss only to yank the sweater over his head and discard it. The city lights painted his torso in streaks of silver and shadow, tracing the definition of his abs, the powerful cut of his shoulders, the faint, pale lines of old scars. Hadley’s breath caught. She’d seen him in magazines, on billboards, but this was different. This was real, warm skin under her palms, a heartbeat thundering against her touch.
“See?” she whispered, her voice rough. “Just a man.”
He didn’t answer with words. His hands went to the hem of her tank top, dragging it up slowly, his knuckles brushing the undersides of her breasts, making her arch into the touch. He tossed it aside, his gaze dropping to her simple lace bra. His expression was one of pure, unvarnished hunger. He bent his head, his mouth finding the slope of her breast through the fabric, his teeth grazing her nipple. A sharp cry tore from her throat, echoing faintly in the empty space.
“Eli…”
He unclasped her bra with a deft, practiced flick, and his mouth was on her bare skin, hot and wet, his tongue circling her nipple before drawing it deep. The sensation was a lightning bolt straight to her core, making her clench and shudder. She clutched at his shoulders, her head falling back. He worshiped one breast, then the other, with a focused, desperate intensity, as if committing the feel and taste of her to memory.
His hands went to the button of her jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud. He pushed the denim and her underwear down her hips in one rough, impatient motion. She kicked free of them, naked now except for her socks. The air was cool on her heated skin.
He sat back on his heels, looking at her. Just looking. His eyes darkened, his pupils swallowing the gray. His chest heaved. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of awe and a kind of pain. “You’re so…”
She didn’t let him finish. She reached for his belt buckle, her fingers clumsy. He covered her hands with his own, stilling them. “My turn,” he said, his voice a gravelly command. He stood, pulling her up with him, and led her not to a bedroom, but across the vast living room, through an open door.
His bedroom was a mirror of the living room: minimalist, dominated by a huge platform bed with crisp, white linens. The only personal item was a single, slightly crooked poster of a soccer field tacked to a wall, the corners fraying. It was a shock of imperfection in the pristine space.
He stopped her beside the bed. “Hadley.” He said her full name like a vow. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she said without hesitation. “Any way. Every way. But I want you to stop thinking. Stop guarding. Just… feel.”
He nodded, once. He made quick work of his jeans and briefs, shoving them down. He was fully, magnificently erect, his cock thick and heavy, the tip already glistening. Hadley’s mouth watered. She reached for him, wrapping her fingers around his length, stroking him once, twice, feeling him jump in her hand. A strangled sound ripped from his throat.
He pushed her then, gently but firmly, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress and she sat. He followed her down, covering her body with his, the heat and weight of him pinning her to the cool sheets. The contrast was exquisite. He kissed her again, deeply, as his hand slid down her stomach, through the curls, and found her wet and open for him.
“So fucking ready,” he growled against her lips, his fingers sliding through her slickness, circling her clit with a pressure that made her cry out and buck against his hand. He added a finger, then two, pushing them deep inside her, curling them, stroking a spot that made her vision whiten at the edges. “Come on, Haddie. Come for me. Let me feel it.”
He was relentless, his mouth on her breast, his fingers pumping and curling, his thumb pressing hard circles. The coil inside her, wound tight since the moment she saw him in the stadium tunnel, snapped. Pleasure detonated through her, a raw, convulsing wave that tore a scream from her throat, a scream his mouth swallowed. She shook beneath him, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his fingers.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock nudging at her entrance. His eyes held hers, the storm in them finally, fully unleashed. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough. “I want to see you.”
He pushed inside her in one slow, devastating thrust.
They both gasped. The fit was exquisitely tight, a breathtaking fullness that stole the air from her lungs. He was so deep, she felt impaled, owned, completed. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of his control. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his brow.
“You feel…” he began, but words failed him. He dropped his forehead to hers, his breath shuddering against her mouth.
“Move,” she begged, wrapping her legs high around his waist, her heels digging into the hard muscles of his back. “Please, Eli, move.”
He obeyed. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in, a hard, driving stroke that jolted the bedframe against the wall. He set a punishing, perfect rhythm, each thrust hitting that deep, sensitive spot with unerring accuracy. The slap of skin on skin, their ragged breaths, her sharp cries—they were the only sounds in the silent apartment, defiling the quiet.
“Is this messy enough?” he gritted out, his hips pistoning. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her nails raking down his back. “God, yes. More.”
He fucked her with a single-minded ferocity that mirrored his play on the field. It was possessive, hungry, a physical claiming that went beyond skin. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips rising to meet his, each collision pushing her higher, closer to another shattering edge. He shifted slightly, angling deeper, and the change in sensation wrenched a broken shout from her.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice dark with satisfaction. “Take it. All of it. You’re mine like this. Right here. My god, you’re so fucking perfect.”
His words, filthy and fervent, pushed her over. Her second orgasm crashed into her without warning, a deeper, more visceral convulsion that ripped through her center and radiated out to her fingertips. She chanted his name, a mindless plea, as she clenched violently around his cock.
The feel of her pulsing around him broke his last shred of control. With a guttural roar that sounded torn from his soul, he buried himself deep and came, his release pumping into her in hot, endless spurts. His whole body shook, his arms buckling, collapsing on top of her, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their struggling breaths slowly calming. The city glittered, indifferent, beyond the window. The poster of the soccer field watched from the wall.
He was heavy, a welcome weight. Hadley ran her hands over the sweat-slick muscles of his back, feeling the raised lines of the scratches she’d left. She pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder.
Eventually, he stirred. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, keeping her tucked against his body, still joined. He didn’t let go. His arm was a steel band around her waist, his face pressed into her hair. He breathed her in.
Minutes passed. The sweat cooled on their skin.
“The poster,” she said softly, her voice husky.
“Hmm?”
“It’s crooked.”
He was silent for a beat. Then a genuine, quiet laugh vibrated through his chest. “I know. My agent put it up when I bought the place. Told me I needed something ‘human’ in here. I’ve never straightened it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the only thing in this whole fucking place that isn’t perfect,” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair. “And now it’s not the only thing.”
She turned in his arms to look at him. His guard was utterly demolished. His eyes were soft, sated, quietly amazed. He looked younger. He looked real.
He reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek, his touch reverent. “Stay,” he said. It wasn’t a command. It was a request, fragile and raw.
Outside, the first faint hints of dawn were bleaching the black sky to a deep, quiet blue. The fortress was still there, the walls were just as high. But here, in the rumpled sheets of his sterile bed, with her scent on his skin and her body curled into his, a single, crooked poster on the wall felt like the beginning of a crack in the foundation.