Vanessa lay sprawled across Ethan's bed, naked and boneless, her skin still glowing from the aftermath. Every inch of her felt raw—tender and thrumming, overstimulated and greedy for more. Her thighs remained parted, the sheets damp beneath her, her breath still shallow and unsteady. She should've been passed out cold. Instead, her nerves were electric, tingling like live wires, her mind a storm of chaos and clarity colliding.
Her body sang with the memory of him—his mouth, his hands, the relentless way he had taken her apart and stitched her back together with every stroke, every moan he ripped from her throat. She could still feel his teeth at her throat, his breath against her breast, his cock buried deep enough to ruin her. She felt full, even now—echoes of him clinging to her walls, her lips, her skin.
A low groan escaped her throat as she shifted, feeling the delicious ache settle into her bones. Her muscles trembled faintly with exhaustion, and yet she couldn't stop the pulse that kept beating insistently between her thighs. Not after everything he'd done to her. Not after the way he'd looked at her like he wanted to fuck her and keep her all in the same breath.
The glass of water he'd handed her before slipping off to the kitchen sat half-empty on the nightstand. It was a simple gesture, thoughtful. But it struck her in that moment how Ethan it was—predictive, seamless, impossibly intimate. He knew her body well enough to wreck it without asking, and yet he still brought her water. Still kissed her forehead. Still tucked the sheets around her like she was precious.
She threw an arm across her face and groaned, her skin burning in more ways than one. Gods, he was probably in the kitchen smug as hell right now. And he deserved to be. He'd won—again. Not just the sex, not just the teasing or the power play. He'd gotten to her. Crawled inside her head and camped out there, taking up residence with that infuriating smirk and that maddening patience.
Of course he'd predicted this.
Ethan was always one step ahead—in combat, in foreplay, in absolutely wrecking her life without warning.
She rolled onto her side with a hiss, the sheets cool against her heated skin, but they still reeked of him—of clean sweat, dark spice, and something uniquely Ethan. She buried her nose in the pillow and inhaled deeply, unable to stop herself.
And that's when it hit her.
I love him.
The thought slammed into her chest like a freight train, stealing the air from her lungs. Her eyes flew open as she stared at nothing, pulse pounding in her ears. Her entire body went rigid as the truth crackled to life beneath her skin.
No. No, no, no. That wasn't supposed to happen. She'd kept herself guarded, kept this fun, wild, no-strings. And yet somewhere between the whispered praise, somewhere in the space between his teasing words and the way he held her afterward... she had fallen.
Not gently. Not quietly.
She had fucking plummeted.
"Goddammit," she whispered into the pillow, the sound muffled and full of frustration and something dangerously close to panic.
Because she knew.
It was already too late.
And the worst part? He probably knew too.
That moment last night—on the couch, his hands in her hair, her hips grinding into his lap as he whispered filthy promises in her ear—she had almost said it. Almost whimpered it, drunk on his fingers, on his voice, on the way he always made her feel like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.
And Ethan... he'd heard her.
She knew he had.
Because Ethan didn't miss anything. Not the tremor in her voice. Not the look in her eyes. Not the way her body melted under his praise.
But he'd said nothing. Hadn't teased her, hadn't called her out. Just kept kissing her, kept touching her like she hadn't confessed the one thing that could change everything.
Because he knew she wasn't ready to say it. Not out loud. Not yet.
And instead of pushing her... he'd just held her tighter.
Vanessa clenched the sheets in her fists, her chest tight, emotions swirling like a storm with nowhere to go. How the hell did he always seem to see her better than she saw herself?
And then—his footsteps. Quiet, confident. Getting closer.
She had seconds to breathe. Seconds to bury it all.
She sat up too fast, legs swinging over the side of the bed—immediately regretting it when soreness lanced through her thighs and hips. Fuck. Every step was going to remind her of him. Every motion would echo the way he'd handled her like she was his to break.
Because she was. And that terrified her more than she could say.
The door creaked open.
And then he was there.
Hair still damp from sweat, a towel slung casually over one shoulder, his body still shirtless—taut and golden in the morning light. He leaned against the doorframe with a lazy grin, eyes flicking down her bare back, the subtle tremble in her thighs, and then slowly back up to her flushed, unreadable face.
"So, love..." he drawled, that word like a shot straight to the heart, so easy, so loaded, "what do you want for breakfast?"
Her breath hitched. Love. He said it like it meant nothing. Like it was a joke, or a tease, or just a Britishism slipping off his tongue.
But she saw the glint in his eyes. He knew. He fucking knew.
And that bastard had the audacity to smirk.
"Your options," he continued smoothly, strolling into the room like he didn't just send her entire nervous system into meltdown, "are pancakes, eggs and toast, French toast, or an omelet. Choose wisely."
She swallowed hard, her throat dry as her fingers gripped the edge of the mattress. She couldn't let him see how fast her heart was beating. Couldn't let him know what one little word had done to her.
"...French toast," she managed, barely holding her voice steady.
His smirk deepened. "Excellent choice," he said with a wink, then turned on his heel, vanishing down the hall like a fucking menace.
Vanessa exhaled hard, pressing a shaky hand to her face. Damn him.
Still naked, still sore, she stood—wincing a little at the stretch in her thighs—and padded toward the bathroom. Her body still smelled like him, tasted like sex, and her reflection in the mirror was a mess of flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, and hair that looked like it had been thoroughly ravished.
The shower should've grounded her—should've rinsed away the ache between her legs, the wild tangle of thoughts spiraling through her mind. But as hot water cascaded down Vanessa's bare skin in a steamy torrent, all it did was awaken her again.
Each droplet that slid down her chest, over her breasts, down the insides of her thighs felt like a ghost of him. His tongue. His fingers. The weight of his body pinning her down, stretching her open, making her feel like she was his and his alone. Her body still hummed, overstimulated but insatiable.
She pressed her palm flat against the shower wall, head bowed as she tried to steady her breathing. But it was pointless. The moment she closed her eyes, she was back there on the couch—in the dark, under him, his lips brushing hers as he whispered her name like a prayer and a curse all in one.
"Vanessa."
God, the way he said it. Like he owned it. Like he owned her.
Her stomach coiled tight with arousal. She bit her lip, fingers twitching at her side, resisting the urge to slip lower, to touch herself where she still ached for him. But she didn't want relief. Not anymore. Not like that.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath, dragging wet fingers through her hair, forcing herself to look up into the fogged mirror across from the glass panel. Her reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, dark eyes heavy with want. She didn't look like the girl who used to shove Ethan into lockers and steal his lunch money.
No. She looked wrecked. Raw. Unraveled.
And maybe just a little obsessed.
She groaned and tilted her head back, letting the water pour over her face as she laughed bitterly. Seriously? Melting because he made you French toast?
But her smirk didn't last long.
Because then—she heard it.
The creak of floorboards outside the bathroom.
Her breath caught.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
And then a shadow passed just beyond the frosted glass of the door. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar.
Ethan.
Her heart began to pound, not with fear—but with something far darker, hotter. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Her lips parted slightly, her skin suddenly ten degrees hotter beneath the water.
She had left the door unlocked. On purpose.
Just to see if he'd take the bait.
And now he was right there. Inches away.
Would he come in?
Would he throw the door open, eyes dark with hunger, press her against the slick tiles, and fuck her like they were still in the heat of today morning? Would he sink to his knees and eat her again until she screamed? Until her legs gave out and she had to cling to him, trembling?
She shivered, one hand sliding down to her lower belly, to where her pulse beat like a drum. The thought of his hands gripping her hips, his cock pushing into her from behind, water pouring over them both—it sent a fresh wave of heat through her core.
She held her breath.
A pause.
A moment.
She could feel him on the other side. Could almost hear the war going on inside him.
And then...
A sigh.
A muttered curse. Low and throaty. And then—
Nothing.
The shadow disappeared.
Vanessa let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, equal parts relieved and furious.
"Coward," she whispered under her breath, a wicked smile spreading across her lips as she turned off the water.
Oh, she was definitely going to tease him for this.
She stepped out of the shower, skin flushed and dripping, and reached for one of his towels—of course, thick, soft, absurdly luxurious, like everything else about him. She wrapped it around her slowly, deliberately, dragging the fabric across her still-tingling skin as she dried off.
Every movement, every brush of the towel against her nipples, between her thighs, was a slow torture. But she didn't rush. No—she wanted to be ready for him.
By the time she made her way into the kitchen, she was glowing.
Ethan stood at the stove, shirtless, casual as ever, flipping slices of golden-brown French toast like he hadn't just been outside the bathroom, fighting off the urge to ravish her.
She leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, towel clinging to her damp body, one bare leg exposed in a teasing curve.
"You chickened out," she said, voice rich with challenge and amusement.
He didn't turn. Didn't even miss a beat with the spatula. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Vanessa snorted, striding closer with a sultry sway in her hips, until the heat of the stove mingled with the heat radiating from her body.
"Oh, please. You came back to the room, saw I wasn't there, followed the voice to the shower and—" she stepped in close, her voice dropping to a purr as she leaned in behind him, her breath brushing his neck—"left."
Finally, finally, Ethan turned his head, meeting her gaze over his shoulder.
His eyes were darker now. Sharp. Hungry.
And barely restrained.
"Like I said," he murmured, voice low, "I don't know what you're talking about."
But the way his grip tightened on the spatula, the way his jaw clenched—he knew.
Vanessa smiled wickedly and let her fingers ghost over his waist, tracing the V of his hips, her towel shifting just slightly as she leaned in closer.
"I left the door unlocked," she whispered, the words brushing his ear like a kiss.
Ethan's breath caught, just for a second. His knuckles whitened on the edge of the counter.
"I know."
There it was.
The crack in his composure.
Vanessa's smile widened. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Vanessa barely managed to lower herself onto the kitchen chair without wincing, her movements slow and deliberate as her thighs protested every inch. Her muscles throbbed with a soreness that went bone-deep—a delicious, aching reminder of exactly what Ethan had done to her. And he knew it. Of course he did.
Ethan sat across from her like he hadn't wrecked her body for hours last night. Like he hadn't made her scream, beg, claw at him like she was drowning in pleasure. His shirt was still missing—just bare chest, golden skin, and a cocky smirk as he lazily twirled his fork between his fingers. He looked like sex made human. Smug, dangerous, and fully aware of the effect he had on her.
"Didn't think you had it in you," he murmured, taking a bite of French toast like he was commenting on the weather.
Vanessa's eyes snapped to him, narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ethan tilted his head like he was genuinely considering the question, fork tapping against his plate. "Well..." he drawled, stretching out the word just to rile her up, "judging by the way you groaned when the hot water hit your sore muscles, I figured I might've overworked you."
Vanessa froze mid-bite.
Oh. Hell no.
Heat flushed up her chest to her face as and she knew when she'd stepped into the shower and let out a helpless, throaty moan the moment the spray hit her back. It hadn't been subtle. And now, clearly, she knew exactly why he hadn't followed her in.
He'd heard it. And he'd decided to be smug about it.
She stabbed her fork into her toast and shoved it into her mouth before she could say something explosive. Ethan watched her with lazy satisfaction, biting into another piece like he was perfectly innocent.
"Nothing to say to that, huh?" he teased, the sparkle in his eye damn near infuriating.
She swallowed her bite hard and glared at him. "I hate you."
His grin widened, teeth flashing. "You didn't hate me last night." He paused, licking syrup from his thumb. "Actually, if I recall, you were screaming very different things."
Her cheeks burned. Her thighs clenched instinctively, a fresh throb of heat blooming low in her belly. Goddamn him.
Vanessa huffed and focused on her food, trying to steer the conversation into safer territory. They danced through casual topics— prom, classmates, professors, things neither of them really cared about—but she felt his gaze on her, always returning to her, like he was waiting for the next move.
Like he knew she was plotting something.
She finished a bite slowly, deliberately. Then set her fork down with a soft click, licking a stray dab of syrup from her bottom lip. Her eyes never left his.
Ethan's brow arched immediately, suspicion flickering across his face.
"Vanessa," he said slowly, setting his own fork aside, "what are you doing?"
She rested her chin in her palm, feigning innocence. "Hmm?"
He leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "That look. I don't trust it."
She smiled, leaning in slightly. "I was just thinking..."
Her fingers ghosted over the table, then slid across to graze his wrist. Ethan's arm twitched beneath her touch, muscles tense. Her voice dipped, sultry and soft. "...maybe you overestimated yourself."
He narrowed his eyes. "How do you figure?"
"You said you didn't come into the shower because you thought I was too sore," she murmured, trailing her fingers up his forearm slowly, "but maybe you're the one who's tapped out. Maybe it's you who's too tired."
His jaw ticked.
Bingo.
Vanessa gave him a slow once-over, her gaze lingering shamelessly on his chest, his arms, the telltale flex of his abs. "You look like you're barely holding it together."
His eyes darkened instantly. Gone was the teasing gleam. What replaced it was sharp. Focused. Dangerous.
"Is that so?"
She shrugged, letting out a soft, mocking sigh as she sat back. The towel she still wore had started to loosen just slightly—enough to expose the soft upper curve of her breast. "It's a shame, really. I was going to suggest a rematch. But if you're too tired..."
She let it hang in the air like bait.
And waited.
Ethan didn't speak. Not at first.
Then, he stood.
The shift in the room was immediate—like a predator rising from stillness. Vanessa's breath caught, her body going on high alert as he came around the table with slow, deliberate steps.
He didn't stop until he was beside her, towering over her.
She refused to look up. Not yet.
Until—
Fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her face up.
Her breath hitched.
His touch wasn't rough, but it carried a promise. One that made her thighs press together under the towel. Ethan's gaze burned into hers, unreadable but thick with intent.
"You want a rematch?" he asked, voice a low rasp against her ear.
Her heart pounded. "Depends."
"On?"
"On whether you're going to actually use that cocky mouth of yours, or just keep talking."
Ethan's lips curved, dangerous and slow. He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear. "Finish your breakfast," he murmured, voice gravel and fire. "You're going to need the energy."
Vanessa swallowed hard, her entire body tightening at the unspoken promise laced in his tone.
"And then what?" she whispered.
Ethan stepped back with a smirk that could bring kingdoms to their knees.
"Then," he said, turning away, "we'll see who's actually still standing when I'm done."
Vanessa sat there, breath shallow, pulse hammering.
Oh. It was on.
Vanessa was still finishing the last bite of her French toast when Ethan stood, casually collecting his plate and taking it to the sink. She barely looked up, expecting the moment to fade into the usual after-breakfast lull—but instead of walking away, he doubled back, quiet as a shadow, stopping behind her with predatory calm.
Her fork paused mid-air.
She felt him before she saw him.
Warm fingers ghosted over her bare shoulder—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the texture of her skin with just the pads of his fingers. She tensed, but not from discomfort. From anticipation.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice edged with suspicion she didn't really feel.
Ethan leaned in, his breath grazing the shell of her ear, teasing and maddening. "Relax," he murmured. "Your hair's a mess. I'm fixing it."
What? She nearly laughed, confused—but then his fingers were in her hair, undoing the messy knot she'd twisted after her shower, and the laugh died in her throat.
He wasn't playing.
His touch was unhurried, skilled. He gathered sections of her hair, separating the strands with the kind of lazy focus that shouldn't have been this arousing. But it was. Oh god, it was.
The intimacy of it—the quiet possessiveness—hit her harder than it should have. His fingers tugged gently through her damp locks, massaging her scalp now and then, brushing the sensitive nape of her neck, and it sent chills right through her spine. The rhythm of it... the silence, save for the slow drag of breath between them... it was a seduction in its own right.
He wasn't just fixing her hair.
He was claiming her.
With every twist of her strands, every careful pull, he was sending a message without ever speaking it.
Mine.
Vanessa clenched her thighs beneath the table, her breath growing shallower with every pass of his hands. By the time he'd braided it—tight, neat, and thoroughly unnecessary—her skin was flushed, her pulse erratic. Her nipples were hard, traitorous peaks under the towel still clinging barely to her frame.
Ethan ran his fingers down the length of the braid, slow and deliberate, before giving it a soft, unexpected tug that forced her chin up, exposing the vulnerable curve of her throat.
"Perfect," he murmured, but his voice had dropped—deeper, darker now. It wrapped around her like silk and heat.
She swallowed hard, her breath catching, heart thundering in her ears. Her entire body was on high alert, nerve endings buzzing, as if the slightest touch might make her snap.
And then, as if casually dropping a bomb, he leaned in and whispered against her ear, "By the way... I called your mom earlier. Told her you might need to extend your little sleepover by a day."
Vanessa blinked. Reality hiccuped.
What.
She whipped her head around, eyes wide. "You what?!"
Ethan only smiled, maddeningly calm, his hands sliding down to her waist, fingers curling possessively around her hips. "She was surprisingly chill about it," he said with a shrug, his thumbs brushing bare skin where her towel had slipped slightly. "Guess she really likes me."
She groaned, burying her face in her hands. Of course she does. Her family liked Ethan. How could they not? The charm, the smirk, the hidden sweetness under that infuriating confidence... It was a recipe for total chaos.
Ethan chuckled low in his throat, and she felt it vibrate through her body, deep and sensual.
But he didn't move away. If anything, his hands slid lower, more deliberately now—fingertips skimming under the hem of the towel, tracing lazy circles into her thighs.
"So," he murmured near her ear, "since we've got some extra time together..."
She tensed, hips instinctively shifting under his grip.
"What do you say we make the most of it?"
Her breath hitched hard, and her body—oh god, her body—betrayed her all over again. She leaned into him. Her towel slipped another inch, revealing even more skin, but she didn't care. Not when she could feel the hard press of his arousal against her back, thick and unyielding, his breath hot against her neck.
"You're impossible," she muttered, even as her thighs pressed together, needy and wet.
"And yet," he said, his tone velvet and flame, "you're still here."
His touch dragged along her inner thigh, coaxing another tremble from her. The plate of half-eaten toast was forgotten. The entire kitchen was forgotten. It was just him—his heat, his scent, his body behind hers like a loaded weapon ready to fire.
And then, just as her breath caught in her throat and her hips rocked back into him of their own volition—he moved.
One hand. That's all it took.
Ethan's fingers slid over Vanessa's bare shoulder with the same ease he'd used to braid her hair, a slow glide that carried far more intent. Down the front of her towel—just a whisper of contact—and then a simple, casual tug.
And gravity did the rest.
The towel slipped from her body, pooling loosely around her waist, and just like that, she was bare. Exposed. Not just to the morning air—but to him.
Vanessa sucked in a sharp breath as cool air met flushed skin, her nipples tightening instantly, her entire body prickling under the heat of his gaze. Ethan didn't say anything at first—he didn't need to. His silence said everything.
And then his knuckles were brushing the valley between her breasts—so slowly, so deliberately it almost felt cruel. She could feel the drag of his skin against hers, just the faintest hint of pressure, and her core pulsed in response.
"You—" she tried, not even knowing what she was going to accuse him of.
Ethan hummed. That maddening sound of amusement and approval. "What?"
His fingers drifted lower, knuckles grazing her stomach in a way that made her shiver, not from the cold—but from need. A craving that settled deep, like a coil tightening.
Vanessa turned her head just enough to catch his expression—the smirk, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. She knew that look. It was the one that always came before he devoured her.
"You planned this," she breathed.
That smirk widened. "Not everything has to be planned." His hands curved over her hips, fingers flexing slightly. "Some things just... happen."
God, she hated how easy he made it seem. How one look, one touch, could melt her down into something molten. But even more than that... she loved it. Loved how he took control of her body like it was second nature. Like he knew her better than she knew herself.
Her lips parted to reply, but he cut her off without a word—his mouth landing on her neck in a kiss that was more than just affection. It was a promise. A threat. A claim.
The shudder it drew from her was instant. His mouth trailed lower, lips brushing over the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her collarbone, while his hands explored—palming her waist, pressing her back against him until she could feel the hard length of him, hot and thick, against her bare skin.
His fingers brushed over her breasts—just barely—but that tease alone had her gasping, her body arching toward him like she was begging. And maybe she was. She couldn't even tell anymore.
"Still tired?" he asked, voice rough, low, vibrating against her skin. "Because I was under the impression... that you'd recovered."
Vanessa's breath hitched, her body saying yes even as her mouth struggled for a response. She wanted to be clever. Wanted to toss a retort at him, keep up the game. But all she could do was feel. The way he touched her. The way he looked at her. Like she was already undone.
And then—without warning—he spun her around.
One moment she was standing, the next her back was pressed against the cool wood of the kitchen table. The shock of it drew a gasp from her lips—but Ethan was already there, stepping between her legs like he belonged there. Because he did.
Her thoughts scattered like broken glass as his mouth claimed hers, no pretense, no softness. Just heat. Tongue. Command.
His kiss tasted like hunger. Like possession.
And his hands—oh, his hands—they weren't idle. One cupped her breast, kneading until her back arched into his palm. The other slipped lower, fingers sliding through the slick wetness between her thighs. A single, teasing pass, just enough pressure to make her moan into his mouth.
"Ethan—" she gasped, breathless, wrecked.
He pulled back just enough to smirk against her lips. "Shh" and with too little effort he turned her around once more.
And then, in one smooth, merciless thrust—he sank into her.
Vanessa's cry echoed through the kitchen, He groaned, low and guttural, forehead dropping to hers—but he didn't pause. Didn't give her time.
He moved with purpose. Each thrust deep, slow, devastatingly precise—like he wanted her to feel every inch, every deliberate roll of his hips. Her hands scrambled for grip, fingers digging onto the tables edges as moans spilled from her lips like confessions.
The table rocked violently beneath them, its legs screeching against the hardwood as he drove into her—again, and again. Plates rattled. A glass tipped and shattered on the floor, but the sound was distant, irrelevant. All she could process was the way he filled her—deep, thick, relentless—how every thrust felt like it carved her open and claimed her from the inside out.
Her nails clawed at the polished wood, searching for purchase as her body surged forward with each punishing stroke. He was unrelenting. Ferocious. Her thighs burned from the stretch, from the way he kept her bent over the edge, her ass tilted up perfectly for his use. Her body sang with it—aching, fluttering, drenched.
Then—his fingers curled into the braid he'd so carefully tied minutes before, the intimate gesture twisted now into something primal. He yanked it, forcing her head back, arching her spine until her throat was bared like an offering.
His mouth descended, hot and hungry. He bit—just enough to make her cry out, the sharp sting blooming into molten pleasure.
She whimpered, her voice raw, breath hitching. "Please," she gasped, though she didn't know what she was begging for—more, harder, forever.
Her orgasm hit like a freight train, tearing through her with no warning. Her walls clamped around him, milking him, her entire body trembling as waves of pleasure pulsed through her. Her legs tried to give out, but he held her in place, hand in her braid, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
And still he didn't stop.
"Not yet," he growled into her ear, his voice ragged. "You can take more."
His cock throbbed inside her, slick and insistent. His pace quickened—feral, ravenous—his hips slamming into her with ruthless precision. The table rocked harder, Her breasts bounced with every movement, sweat-slicked and flushed, her nipples aching and untouched, begging.
He noticed.
One hand slid forward, snaking beneath her to capture a breast, fingers tweaking her nipple until she moaned—loud, unashamed, ruined. She was soaking, squelching wet around him, the obscene sounds filling the room along with the slap of skin on skin.
She was undone. Used. Worshipped. Every thrust drove her closer to that edge again, nerve endings raw and oversensitized, her body begging to fall once more—even if it broke her.
And behind her, he just kept going. Possessive. Merciless. Starving for every last drop of her surrender.
She couldn't think—could barely breathe. Her vision blurred, head swimming as he fucked her straight through the aftershocks. Her body had already come apart, and yet he was still there, still buried inside her, thrusting deeper, harder, dragging new moans from her with every brutal slam of his hips.
Her knees buckled, but he caught her effortlessly, his grip unyielding. "I said," he growled, dragging her back flush to him, cock still buried deep, "you're not done."
His hand moved from her hip to her throat, not choking—just holding, claiming, feeling her pulse hammer beneath his fingers. His chest was slick with sweat against her back, heat radiating off him in waves as his hips kept their punishing rhythm. Each thrust punched a gasp from her lips, sharp and helpless.
She was soaked. Wrecked. Her inner thighs slick with arousal, the obscene sounds of him sliding in and out of her louder now, filthier. Her body no longer responded with resistance—it opened for him, willingly, desperately, trembling around him with each relentless stroke.
He bent her forward again, roughly, her cheek pressing to the table's surface. Cool wood met flushed skin as he angled her hips higher, spreading her wider. He wanted everything—every inch, every sound, every broken cry that tumbled from her lips.
And he took it.
His hand slid down her spine, slow, almost reverent. Then it was on her ass, spreading her further apart so he could watch himself disappear into her again and again. "You hear that?" he murmured darkly, voice thick with arousal. "That's how wet you are for me. That's what you sound like when I fuck you."
She whimpered in response, shamed by how much it turned her on—how filthy it felt to be opened like this, held in place and taken without pause.
He leaned over her, voice hot against her ear. "You think I'm letting you go after one orgasm?" He drove into her again, harder, dragging a sob from her throat. "You'll scream for me before I'm done. You'll forget your own name."
And she believed him.
Because her body was already climbing again, pressure curling low in her belly, tighter, hotter—her second orgasm threatening to tear her apart before she could even recover from the first. Her thighs shook uncontrollably. Her voice cracked as she moaned his name, pleading for something, anything—more, less, to never stop.
He wrapped a fist in her braid again, yanking her head up so he could see her face twisted in helpless pleasure, eyes glassy, lips parted and wet. "That's it," he purred, cock driving deeper, slower now, grinding against the spot that made her entire world white out. "Come for me again. Be good and fall apart."
And then—she did.
A raw cry tore from her throat as her orgasm slammed through her. It was feral, a wave that shattered her, sent her body spasming around him with desperate, clenching need. Her voice was gone, replaced by gasps and broken sobs of pleasure, her whole world narrowing to the rhythm of his body inside hers.
She was quivering, wrecked, barely holding herself up—but he held her there, bent and trembling, her breath fogging against the table's surface. Her pussy still spasmed from the last orgasm, gripping him greedily, as if her body had made its choice and surrendered completely.
He didn't slow.
If anything, he became rougher. Hungrier. His cock drove into her with a force that sent shockwaves through her spine. She choked on a moan when his hand left her braid and snaked beneath her again—not gentle, not hesitant. He cupped her breast from underneath, fingers spreading wide, claiming the weight of it.
Then he gripped tight.
He used her chest for leverage, dragging her back onto him with each thrust, making her bounce on his cock, her body forced to move how he wanted. The slap of their flesh was wet and merciless, echoing in the air thick with sex and sweat.
Her nipple was caught between his fingers next—pinched, rolled, tugged. She gasped, her mouth open against the table, nails clawing uselessly at the wood.
"You feel that?" he snarled behind her, his voice barely human, breath ragged. "You're dripping. You're milking me, baby."
She could barely answer. Her world had narrowed to the feel of his cock inside her, the burn of his fingers on her nipples, and then—
His other hand found her clit.
A rough thumb pressed against that sensitive bud, slick with her own arousal. He didn't tease—he circled with firm, brutal pressure that made her jolt, hips jerking back into him reflexively.
"Fuck," she gasped, her voice high and broken, eyes rolling back. "Too much—"
But it wasn't. He knew it. She was soaked. Desperate. Her body begged for more even as her voice failed.
He leaned over her again, using her tit to pull her upright as he kept driving into her, his chest against her back, his cock buried to the hilt. His thrusts were harder now—deep, punishing, grinding against the tender place inside her with every ruthless stroke.
His mouth was at her ear again, lips slick with sweat, voice low and dark. "You're going to come again, and you're going to do it on my cock, with my fingers on your clit, with your tits in my hands."
Her moans were constant now, breathy and broken, her body arching back into him like she couldn't get close enough.
Her breasts bounced with every movement, caught in his hands like he owned them, used them, squeezed them like handles to pull her harder onto his cock. Her clit throbbed under his thumb, each circle pushing her closer—higher—too fast—too much—
And then she shattered again.
This one ripped through her with a sob, a cry that came from somewhere deep, primal. Her body convulsed, walls clenching so hard around him it drew a low, guttural curse from his throat. Her thighs shook. Her toes curled. She was nothing but sensation, stretched tight around him, dragged over the edge with his cock still pounding inside her.
She barely had time to breathe before he pushed her forward—hard.
Her chest hit the table, nipples dragging against the cool, polished surface, sending another jolt of sensation through her overstimulated nerves. The edge dug into her pelvis just below her mound, right where her clit throbbed and begged for friction.
And he gave it to her.
Without pause, he gripped her braid again, yanked her head back just enough to arch her spine, and began to fuck her like a machine. Ruthless. Focused. Every thrust a brutal piston of pleasure slamming deep inside her.
He was a jackhammer behind her—unrelenting, mechanical in his power, but deliberate. Each thrust was aimed, calculated, designed to hit her exactly where she broke.
His cock hit her G-spot over and over, the angle perfect now, the head grinding against that tender bundle inside her with every violent slam forward. The rough edge of the table pressed directly into her clit, just enough to drag across it every time her body jolted forward under the force of his hips.
And she was jolting constantly.
The combination was maddening. He drove into her, again, and again—her clit crushed between her body and the table's edge, her cunt spasming around him, soaked and sensitive and utterly owned.
She screamed. It wasn't even a word, just a sound—raw, helpless, feral.
"Yeah," he growled, yanking her braid tighter, holding her exactly where he wanted her. "Take it. Fucking take it like the good girl you are."
She drooled against the table, eyes rolled back, body on fire. His grip on her braid made her scalp sting, her throat arch, her back curve deeper to take more of him. Her tits dragged across the table with every movement, nipples aching and flushed, smeared with sweat.
He slammed into her faster, harder, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing like thunder through the room. Her ass rippled with each impact, her thighs quaking, the slick squelch of her pussy obscene in the silence between their moans and curses.
"God, you're perfect like this," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Fucking dripping. Clenching around me like you were made for my cock."
She could barely process his words—her mind overloaded by sensation, the brutal rhythm, the delicious pressure on her clit. Her pussy was fluttering again, another orgasm building too fast, sharp and molten and terrifying in its intensity.
He didn't let up. Not even for a second.
His thrusts became manic, reckless in their precision—driving her into the edge of the table again and again, each collision lighting her nerves on fire. Her clit pulsed with it. Her G-spot screamed with it.
And then—she flew apart.
Her whole body convulsed, her scream strangled against the table as pleasure detonated through her—violent, mindless, pure. She couldn't see. Couldn't speak. Her cunt clamped down on him so hard it dragged a roar from his chest, her inner walls fluttering in rhythmic pulses, milking him, demanding.
She was ruined.
But he still held her there, hips grinding, braid wrapped tight around his fist, cock buried to the hilt in the spasming, dripping heat of her body.
And he hadn't come yet.
She was sobbing now—pure sound, no shame—her cheek pressed to the table, her body reduced to nothing but nerve endings and fire. Her clit was trapped against the hard edge, the rough friction driving her closer with every brutal, devastating thrust.
Ethan's cock slammed into her like a weapon, every thrust angled perfectly to batter that sweet, swollen spot inside her, dragging her higher and higher until she was trembling violently, barely tethered to reality.
"Come again," he snarled through gritted teeth, voice sharp with need, hunger, obsession. "I want to feel you fucking break on me."
Her body obeyed before her mind even caught up.
With a shattered cry, she convulsed around him again, another orgasm ripping through her—savage and all-consuming. Her pussy squeezed him in tight, pulsing around his cock like it never wanted to let him go, her entire body locking up in a wave of wet, blinding pleasure.
And Ethan followed.
With a harsh groan, his rhythm stuttered. He slammed into her one final time, deeper than ever, grinding into her as his cock throbbed and he spilled inside her with a curse and a growl that sounded like it had been ripped straight from his chest.
And then—silence.
Just their breath. Tangled. Harsh. Unsteady.
Her heart was racing. So was his.
And for a long, suspended moment, neither of them moved. Her body was wrecked, molded to the shape of his need, his claim. His cock still rested inside her, twitching with the last pulses of release, his chest heaving against her back.
When Ethan finally pulled back, sweat slicking his skin, his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. Lazy. Satisfied.
Vanessa barely had time to process the aftershocks still rippling through her body before her knees gave out entirely. Her legs, once so eager to wrap around him, now betrayed her completely. She collapsed against the table with a broken exhale, utterly spent, her thighs trembling, her pussy still leaking with the evidence of his possession.
But Ethan was already there—catching her effortlessly, like he'd expected it. Like he wanted it. His arms slid around her with practiced ease, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.
Her skin was still flushed, damp with sweat, her limbs heavy from release. She hated how helpless she felt—and loved it, too.
"I can walk," she muttered, voice muffled against his chest. "You know."
Ethan chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her body like a second heartbeat. "Yeah?" he drawled, his lips brushing her temple as he shifted her weight. "Because from what I just saw, you were wobbling like a newborn deer."
Vanessa groaned and buried her face in the curve of his neck, her cheeks burning hotter than they had all morning. "You're so annoying."
He didn't answer, just laughed again—that deep, satisfied laugh that curled something dark and warm in her belly—and carried her straight into the bedroom. The sheets were still slightly rumpled from earlier, the air heavy with their scent, their sweat, their sex.
Ethan didn't lay her down gently. He dropped her. Not carelessly, but deliberately—letting her bounce once on the mattress, her hair fanning around her as she landed with a soft gasp. Then he followed, stretching out beside her like a lion lounging next to his prey, head propped on one hand, his other arm slung lazily across her waist.
He didn't touch her much. He didn't have to.
His eyes did enough damage—dark and gleaming, fixed on her like he could still feel her wrapped around him. And the worst part? He wasn't even trying. That lazy smirk, that stupid, smug curve of his lips, said he knew exactly what he'd done to her.
Vanessa tried not to squirm beneath the weight of his gaze.
She failed.
Their breathing hadn't fully settled yet. The air between them was thick with unspoken things—desire still humming just beneath the surface, pulsing, simmering.
Then, finally, she turned her head, catching his eye through the veil of her tousled hair.
"So..." she began, voice still a little hoarse, "the hair-braiding thing."
Ethan's brow lifted. "The hair-braiding thing?"
"Yeah. Since when do you know how to do that?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her jaw for a second too long, his thumb trailing down her throat. That simple gesture sent another unwanted shiver rolling through her. Her body didn't know how to stop responding to him.
"Since I was a kid," he said finally, voice soft in a way that caught her off guard. "Used to do my mom's hair all the time."
Vanessa blinked. That was... unexpectedly sweet. And, somehow, even more dangerous. There was something lethal about a man who could do that to her body and then talk about doing his mom's hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But of course, Ethan didn't stay soft for long.
His eyes darkened again, and his smirk returned—slow, lazy, predatory. "And you know..." he added, voice dropping lower, rougher, like a shared secret. "Once you get good with hair... it's not that different from working with rope."
Her heart stopped.
Her stomach dropped.
Her thighs clenched involuntarily.
Her eyes widened, scandalized. "Oh my god."
Ethan grinned like the devil himself. "Now you're blushing?"
She groaned, face flushing even hotter as she rolled onto her side, shoving her face into the pillow. "You are the worst."
He chuckled, clearly delighted by every second of her embarrassment. "You really shouldn't leave certain magazines lying around, sweetheart."
Vanessa let out a strangled sound into the pillow.
Of course he'd tease about them right now. And now he was never—ever—going to let her live it down.
But what made it worse? Deep down... she didn't actually mind. Not when his fingers were already trailing down her spine again—slow, lazy strokes that didn't seem to have a destination, just a purpose: to remind her who had just unraveled her so thoroughly.
Her breath slowed under his touch. Her muscles, already boneless, began to melt further into the mattress. Her mind drifted somewhere between mortified and aroused, still buzzing from the high he'd given her, already hungry for more.
Ethan's hand curved possessively around her hip, anchoring her against him.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
The way he held her said enough.
And slowly, with her face half-hidden in the pillow and his body pressed warm and firm behind her, sleep began to pull her under.
~~~~~