Chapter 2: The Spanking
The steam from the shower clung to the bathroom, a wet ghost that fogged the mirror and beaded on the black tiles. Nomi’s back was against the cold wall, a shock against her heated skin, the contrast making her gasp. Ant’s body pinned her there, a solid, unyielding weight of muscle and intent. The water beat down on his shoulders, sluicing over the defined planes of his back, following the path of her fingernails as they dug in, seeking purchase.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice a rough vibration against her throat. His calloused hands gripped her thighs, hiking them higher around his waist. The movement was effortless for him, straining for her. She forced her eyes open, meeting his dark, piercing gaze. The look in them wasn’t just desire; it was a storm, a possessive fury she had ignited.
“You let him touch you,” Ant said, not a question but an accusation, as he pushed into her again, a deep, claiming stroke that made her cry out. The sound was swallowed by the spray and the slick slap of skin on skin. “That soft-handed motherfucker from the coffee shop. You brought him here.”
“I didn’t—,” she tried, but the words dissolved into a whimper as he angled his hips, hitting a spot that shattered her coherence. Her head thudded back against the tile.
“You did.” He drove into her, each thrust a punctuation to his words. “You let him in our space. Smelled my shit on the couch and still sat him down.” His rhythm was punishing, relentless. “You think that didn’t wreck me? Seeing his eyes on you?”
Tears mixed with the shower water on her face. It wasn’t just from the pleasure, which was a sharp, coiling wire about to snap, but from the raw truth in his anger. She had done it to test him, to test this terrifying, all-consuming thing between them, and now she was drowning in the consequence.
“Ant, please—”
“Please what, mami?” He slowed, torturously, buried deep inside her. He leaned in, his lips a breath from hers. “You wanna come? Then come. But you come on my dick, understanding who you belong to. No one else gets this. No one else gets to hear you.” He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, biting her lower lip, swallowing her moans.
His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit with a precision that was cruel in its excellence. He circled it, pressed, his other arm a band of iron across her back, holding her utterly captive.
“Say it,” he demanded against her mouth.
Her whole world had narrowed to the feeling of him—the stretch, the burn, the exquisite friction, the rough pad of his thumb. The coil snapped. A shattered, keening sound was torn from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her, a violent wave that clenched around him, milking him desperately. She shook, utterly boneless, held up only by his strength and the wall.
He fucked her through it, his own control fraying. “Fuck,” he snarled, the word guttural. “Fuck, Nomi.” His thrusts became erratic, brutal, chasing his own release. With a final, deep grind, he spilled into her, a hot pulse that seemed to go on forever, his whole body shuddering, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a ragged groan.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the water and their ragged breaths. The steam seemed thicker, hotter. He slowly lowered her, her legs trembling so badly she would have fallen if he hadn’t kept his arms around her. He reached behind her and shut off the water.
The sudden silence was deafening. Dripping, he grabbed a towel, rough but careful as he dried her first, swaddling her in the thick cotton. He dried himself hastily, his movements slower now, the aggression spent.
He led her, silent, into the bedroom. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin. He pulled back the rumpled sheets and guided her in, then climbed in beside her, pulling her back against his chest. His heartbeat was a frantic drum against her spine, gradually slowing.
His lips brushed the damp skin of her shoulder. “I saw the video,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.
Nomi froze. She hadn’t posted anything. Not about him. Not about them.
“Not yours,” he murmured, as if reading her tension. “Some shitty cell phone clip from our show at The Cave last week. Someone got me in the crowd after, walking to the bar. You were in the corner of the frame. For like, two seconds.”
She remembered that night. The loud, dark club, the thrill of watching him play, the way he’d found her immediately after, sweaty and buzzing with adrenaline, and kissed her like he was starved for it.
“All the comments,” he continued, his arm tightening around her waist. “Asking who the girl with the big eyes and the glasses was. Jokes. Speculation. Someone said you looked like a lost kitten.” He let out a long, slow breath. “I wanted to find every one of those accounts and rip them apart. That’s what you do to me. That possessive, fucked-up feeling? It’s yours. You own that, too.”
The confession hung in the dark, more intimate than anything their bodies had just done.