Page 66 of What You left in Me
A low, satisfied growl rumbles out of me, and I don’t wait another fucking second. I thrust into her, hard and brutal, filling her so deep her sob rips through the room, loud and raw, ricocheting off the walls. There’s no gentleness in me, no holding back. I’m claiming her, owning every inch of her tight, perfect pussy as I push deeper, the stretch so intense I can feel her struggling to take me. Her breath’s coming in short, desperate gasps, and I press my forehead to hers, my hand cradling her face like she’s fucking precious even as I fuck her like I’m trying to break her.
“You’re taking me so fucking good,” I murmur, my voice low and rough, my thumb stroking her cheek to anchor her against the onslaught. She’s trembling, caught between pain and pleasure, and I’m fucking lost in how perfect she feels, how tight, how mine. “Just a little more,” I promise, my lips brushing hertemple, a ghost of a kiss to keep her grounded as my hips drive forward, sinking the rest of the way in. She’s so full of me, so stretched, that when our hips finally meet, I let out a groan that’s pure fucking animal, raw and unrestrained.
I hold still for a moment, letting her adjust, my hands roaming her sides, possessive and soothing all at once. She’s shaking under me, her body caught in that sweet spot between agony and ecstasy, and I’m fucking addicted to it. “Look at me,” I rasp, my voice tight with the effort of holding back.
Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine, and fuck, they’re a storm. Wild, hungry, and so goddamn worshipful it steals my breath. That look strips away the last of my restraint, leaving nothing but raw, desperate need.
I smirk, wicked and filthy. “Good fucking girl,” I murmur, brushing her hair back with a gentleness that feels out of place with the way I’m about to ruin her. Then I start moving. Slow at first, just to feel every inch of her, but I can’t fucking hold back.
I pound into her, relentless, each thrust driving her harder into the sofa, the leather creaking under us as her body jolts with every brutal snap of my hips. She’s making sounds I didn’t know a woman could make, high, desperate, and fucking primal, and I’m eating it up. Every cry and moan fueling the fire in my veins. “Fuck,” I snarl, my hand sliding up her back, pressing between her shoulder blades to pin her down. “Your pussy was fucking made for me, Ariane. So tight, so fucking perfect.”
My words hit her hard, her body shuddering as another wave of arousal soaks my cock, making every thrust slicker, hotter. I want the whole fucking world to burn while I fuck her like I own her. Because I do. Right now, she’s mine in every way that matters, and I’m not letting go.
She moans, loud and unashamed, biting her lip to try to keep it down, but I’m not having that. “Don’t you fucking hold back,” I order, slamming into her harder, deeper, my rhythm ruthless. “I want every fucking sound, every scream, especially when you come.”
She’s close, I can feel it, her pussy tightening around me, her body spiraling out of control. The pressure’s building in her, coiling tighter, and I’m right there with her, my own release clawing at me. “Finn… please…I’m…” she gasps, her voice breaking.
“Come for me, Ariane,” I snarl, reaching around to rub her clit in tight, merciless circles. “Fucking now.”
Her scream tears through the room as she shatters, her orgasm hitting so hard her body spasms around my cock, milking me with every pulse. The pleasure’s so intense she’s sobbing into the sofa, completely fucking wrecked, and I’m not far behind. I drive into her through her climax, relentless and animalistic, until the pressure in my balls is too much. With a hoarse, broken growl, I come, spilling deep inside her with a final, savage thrust that shakes us both.
“Mine,” I grit out, my rhythm faltering as I empty myself, my cock pulsing as I bury myself to the hilt. “You’re fucking mine now.”
Her body’s still trembling, her breaths ragged, and I collapse against her on the sofa, my chest heaving, my mind blank except for the overwhelming certainty that I’m never letting her go.
Chapter 20 – Ariane - Coffee, Confession, and Catastrophe
The shower is supposed to wipe the slate. Hot water, new day, brain rinse. That’s the myth. I stand under the rainfall head in a bathroom the size of a small studio apartment, and nothing rinses. The glass turns cloudy, the marble steams, my thoughts keep circling like vultures that smelled something tender.
Julian cheated and I coped with it by getting fuckingrailedby my stepbrother. It sounds harsh. But it’s the truth.
He didn’t only cheat. He cheatedspectacularly.No. Pathetically. Hotel keys. Flirty-but-safe texts. “Sunshine.” Of all the nicknames, he chose one that sounds like an Etsy shop. I want to cry or invoice him for emotional damages and a new personality.
And last night…
I flatten my palms to tile that’s cool enough to bite. There’s a part of me that’s still buzzing like I plugged myself into a socket, and a part that’s kneeling on the floor of my conscience gathering the broken pieces and labeling them “evidence.” I crossed a line I spent years painting. I stepped over it on purpose. I can’t even pretend I tripped.
“Good job, Ariane,” I mutter to a very expensive showerhead. “Really nailed the timing. Gold medal in terrible decisions.”
Richard is in the hospital. That sentence lives behind all the others like a shadow you can’t shake just by turning. If Mom finds out about any of this. Oh God… the cheating and the line I burned through last night, she will either pass out dramatically or become the first woman to yell a heart attack back into submission. She once changed her hair, her wardrobe, and ourzip code to outrun a ghost. I can’t hand her a new one because I got impulsive.
I scrub my scalp aggressively and watch beads of water gather on the glass, race each other, break apart, find new paths.
I try to be honest, just for a minute, alone with tile and steam. I pressed a self-destruct button that’s been in the room for years and pretended not to see it. I’m scared of how easy it was to find. I’m scared of the version of me who didn’t hesitate last night. The version I’m turning into.
And then there’s a smaller truth. A part of me felt alive for the first time in months. Years. I don’t like that truth. It makes me feel like a cliché.
My phone vibrates on the counter in a fast, insistent rhythm. It’s either the hospital or the apocalypse.
I shut off the water and step out into fog like a dumb Victorian ghost. The mirror has my outline and a lot of judgment. I towel off so hard I squeak and wrap myself in the robe I stole from my college apartment and refused to upgrade. It’s soft, gray, and has a coffee stain that looks like Australia. Comfort looks like this.
“Hello?” My voice is sandpapery and too awake for this hour.
“Ariane.” Mom’s voice is bright and tight, her particular brand of controlled panic. “Get to the hospital. Now, please. Bring Finn. The doctor has updates.”
“We’ll be there in twenty,” I say.
“Fifteen would be better,” she counters, because she thinks time is a competition she can win. Then softer, like her sternum finally let out half an inch of breath: “It’s not an emergency-emergency. But come.”