He stays buried to the hilt, just letting me feel him inside me, letting my body adjust to the sheer size of him. Leaning down, his mouth captures mine in a slow and possessive kiss, his tongue mating with mine as his cock sits heavy and deep inside me. Every part of me is claimed at once.
“You feel that, Darla?” he growls against my lips, his voice a low, brutal rasp. “That’s me. All of me. This is where I belong.”
He finally moves, a slow, deliberate rhythm that is less about a frantic release and more about a deep, soul-shattering connection. With every slow, deep thrust, he’s showing me. You’re mine. You’re safe. I’m not leaving. His hands are gentle but firm, one tangled in my hair, the other splayed across my stomach, his thumb tracing lazy circles just above my navel. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, if that’s even possible.
“So fucking good,” he groans, his hips rocking, the sound of our bodies slapping together a wet, hypnotic rhythm in the quiet room. “Your pussy feels so good wrapped around my cock, princess.” I meet his thrusts, my need building again in a slow, simmering fire. His control is absolute. He’s a playboy, a man who knows his way around a woman’s body, and he is using every bit of that knowledge to devour me.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to watch my face. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he rasps, his eyes black with lust. “Completely wrecked for me.” He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit again, already pebbled and hard. He circles it, a slow, relentless pressure, as he continues his deep, steady thrusts. The dual sensations are too much. My breath catches on a sob.
“That’s it, baby,” he growls, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. “Come for me again.” I shatter again, and a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure crashes over me. My name is a broken sound on his lips as my inner muscles pulse and milk his cock. The sight of me, the feel of me, is what finally breaks him. He roars my name, a primal, guttural sound, and comes, his hips slamming into me in a final, violent surrender, his release a hot, pulsing flood deep inside me.
He collapses on top of me, his weight a heavy, sated blanket, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I’m boneless, trembling, my arms barely having the strength to wrap around his back. We’re both panting, our bodies slick with sweat. The silence in the room has transformed, now filled with the heavy scent of sex and the erratic sound of our hearts beating in a matched rhythm. He doesn’t pull out. He just holds me, his breathing slowly evening out, and in the quiet dark, I finally, truly, feel safe.
We doze for a while, tangled in the sheets. When I stir again, the sun is higher, streaming through the blinds. East presses a kiss to my shoulder, then murmurs with a sleepy voice. “I should probably make us some real food.” He rolls off me, the loss of his heat an immediate ache, and pulls on his boxers. He grabs a clean T-shirt from a drawer and tosses it to me. “I’ll start breakfast,” he says, giving me one last, lingering look before disappearing down the hall.
I sit there for a minute, my body a map of delicious aches, my mind blissfully quiet. The T-shirt he tossed me smells like him, clean and intoxicating, when I pull it over my head and slip off the bed. In the en-suite bathroom, I turn on the shower, cranking the handle until the water runs hot, the sound a steady rush that helps quiet my mind. Steam fogs the mirror, clouding my reflection, and when I step under the hot spray, the events of the last week crash over me.
The bombing. The cleanup. Constant thrumming anxiety. Days spent at the clubhouse, running on adrenaline and grief. It feels like a lifetime ago. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water wash away the grime of the last week, and the lingering, musky scent of our lovemaking. My father and Trent... they’re still out there. The war isn’t over. But as I stand here, in his shower, in his house, in what he called our bed, I realize I’m not that same terrified, cornered girl anymore. I’m not alone. I have an army. And I have him.
A slow smile spreads across my face. I wash, and when I step out of the shower, I feel... lighter. Renewed. I wrap one of his ridiculously large, fluffy towels around my body and head into the bedroom, the smell of sizzling bacon and coffee now filling the house. My clothes, the few I’ve accumulated, are supposed to be in his closet. I open the door, a small, happy hum in my throat.
And stop dead.
All of my clothes are gone. In their place, laid out on the bed with a theatrical precision that is pure East, is a costume. A riot of crimson sequins and feathers, a ridiculously tiny corset, a feathery sequined skirt, a matching thong, a feather boa, fishnet stockings, and a pair of sky-high, glittering heels.
His revenge.
I stare at it. After a week of trauma and hard work, this ridiculous, over-the-top gesture is a hilarious and welcome shock. A slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. If he thinks this is a punishment, he clearly has no idea who he’s dealing with.
When I walk into the kitchen a half-hour later, he’s at the stove, his back to me. I’ve gone all in. Full hair, full makeup, and I’ve even managed to wrangle myself into the corset. The feathers tickle my nose.
“Smells good,” I purr.
He turns from the stove, a spatula in one hand, a smile already on his face. “Yeah, I just…” He stops. The smile vanishes, his jaw going slack. He just freezes, spatula hovering in mid-air. His eyes, wide with pure, unadulterated shock, do a slow, appreciative crawl from my ridiculous, glittering heels, up the seam of my fishnets, over the bare skin of my thighs, to the tightly cinched, sequined corset. His gaze lingers on the feather boa draped over my shoulders before finally, slowly, rising to meet my eyes.
He’s completely speechless. I just take a dainty bite of my bacon and wait.
“Holy… shit,” he finally breathes, his voice a wrecked, reverent whisper.
“What?” I ask, batting my eyelashes, my voice the picture of pure innocence. “You said to get dressed. Is this not appropriate for breakfast? I couldn’t find my pearls.”
He lets out a choked sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a groan. He sets the spatula down, his movements jerky, like he’s forgotten how his limbs work. “Princess, you’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack.”
I shrug, leaning back against the counter, enjoying this far too much. “So this was your big revenge? A little weak, don’t you think? I’m not even slightly inconvenienced. In fact, I kind of like the sequins.”
After another long second, he laughs—a deep, booming laugh that makes me feel odd. He shakes his head as he closes the distance between us. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of me, his hands finding my waist, his thumbs stroking the bare skin just above the corset.
“You’re a menace,” he growls into my ear, his voice thick with awe and a desire that makes my entire body hum.
“I had nothing else to wear.” My voice is a purr as I loop my arms around his neck, the feather boa tickling his chin. “Youbrought this on yourself. You really should have thought your plan through.”
He turns me in his arms, pressing me back against the counter, his body caging me in. His eyes are burning with a new, dangerous fire. “Oh, I did,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “This was exactly the plan.” He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “You have no idea what you’ve just started.”
Then his mouth is on mine, a hot, hungry kiss that tastes of victory, coffee, and promises of a very different, much better kind of revenge.
After breakfast, as he’s about to get ready to take me to Frankie’s, I stop him. “Wait,” I murmur. I walk over to his record player, my heels clicking on the hardwood, and put on a low, bluesy track. A heavy bass line and a smoky female voice fill the room. I turn to face him. It’s not just a sexy act; it’s a performance. It’s my theatrical, joyful way of saying, “We survived. We’re still here. And I can still be this person.” I take my time, letting the boa slide from my shoulders, my hips swaying to the music. The look on his face—pure, savage ownership and utter devotion—is my real prize. His eyes are black with a possessive heat, his jaw slack. He’s not just watching; he’s devouring me.
As I do a slow turn, letting the sequins catch the light, he lets out a low, wrecked laugh. “You’re unbelievable,” he growls, his voice thick. “You know, the original plan was that I’d hide your clothes until you agreed to dance for me. And here you are, doing it anyway. Just... for me.”
