They made love as if it were a conversation, the kind that needed no words, the kind that rewrote the entire history of their bodies. There was no rush, no frantic scramble for satisfaction, only the steady, slow unfolding of need and devotion—like rain soaking into the earth after months of drought, filling every dry vein with life.
Jenna opened her eyes and found him watching her. He looked almost pained, as if he were torn between wanting to devour her and wanting to protect her from the intensity of what was happening. She pulled his head so that their lips met. The kiss was slow, languid, and deep.
They kissed until she couldn’t breathe, until the need built up again and she started rocking her hips, silently begging him to move. But his body held her pinned down in place and would not allow her to move things along. Out of instinct, need, muscle memory, her teeth sank down into his lower lip, nipping just hard enough to let him know she meant it. The thrill of it caused her inner muscles to clench around his rock-hard shaft, causing him to swell inside of her stretching her walls.
“Fuck,” he gritted out as he quickly switched his position. One arm captured both her hands above her head, pinning her wrists to the mattress while the other gripped her hips, and he began to move with an urgency she felt in every cell of her body.
His forehead rested on hers as he moved slowly at first, and then as the friction of their intimately joined bodies built the momentum of pleasure, his tempo picked up. Faster. Harder.
It was like her body had become a single, burning nerve, every touch amplifying the next. He covered her completely and filled her completely, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted him everywhere, wanted the imprint of him to last until the next time, until always.
His hand moved from her hip, hooking her knee in the crook of his arm and allowing him to drive even deeper inside of her. The sensation stung, it was almost too much—she didn’t want him to stop, but the pleasure bordered on pain, intense enough to make her vision blur. She whimpered into his shoulder and bit into his neck. He responded with a low, guttural moan.
Her head fell back against the pillow, his eyes locked with hers as she asked, “How does that feel so good? How do you make me feel so good?”
She knew how she sounded—desperate, greedy, needy even—but she didn’t care. What was happening between them was a phenomenon, and she was compelled to ask, to make him know what he did to her.
His jaw ticked. “Because you’remine.”
Fuck. She hated to admit it, but hearing him say that, seeing the look in his eye when he had her pussy throwing a pleasure parade in his honor, she couldn’t deny it.
“Mine,” he said again as he thrust into her even harder. “Mine.”
He repeated the possessive pronoun with each thrust, and every time he did, her body responded in the same Trad Wife way. She couldn’t help it. Deep down she clearly wanted to belong to him, to be owned by him. And in the dark, rainy motel room she allowed herself to be. She surrendered completely to him, and when she did, she was greatly rewarded.
The second orgasm crashed through her, a seismic, full-body detonation that left her writhing beneath him, every muscle drawn tight, her hands clutching his forearms as if she might otherwise drift off the planet. This time there was no buildup, no gentle climb—only the violent, shattering freefall. She felt herself split open, every nerve ending a live wire, her mind reduced to bright, flickering static. Dimly, she heard herself make a raw, keening sound, the kind of sound you never expect to hear from your own mouth, primal and unguarded. Deacon didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, he seemed to want to see how far he could push her, how far she could travel into herself before she vanished.
She broke apart and kept breaking. It was as though her entire body was being rewritten, her bones hollowed out and packed with pure sensation, every cell screaming and then collapsing into silence. She lost sense of time, ofwords, of who she was. All she could do was hold on. Deacon held her through it, murmuring something in her ear she couldn’t quite decipher—her name, maybe, or a promise, or the kind of secrets you only tell someone in the dark. When he finally spilled inside her, it was with an intensity that matched hers, his hands gripping her hips so hard she wondered if they’d leave marks.
For a long while, neither of them moved, nothing but the sound of rain and their breathing. The aftershocks wouldn’t stop—her body trembled, her legs twitched, the whole lower half of her felt lit up and alive and, at the same time, numb. She heard her own heart like thunder in her ears. Her thoughts were scattered petals on a gust of wind. She wanted to curl up, to turn away, to hide.
But Deacon turned over and took her with him, tugging her up and onto his chest. She didn’t resist. She let herself be gathered, cradled, pressed against the solid wall of him. His palm stroked her back, fingers splayed wide, the touch gentle but possessive, as if he were holding a precious artifact that might fracture if handled carelessly. The gesture nearly undid her. She tucked her face into his neck and tried to steady her breathing, to will the emotion back down where it belonged.
Normally after sex, especially sex with Deacon, she felt relaxed, but this time was different. She felt like he’d seen her. Really seen her. She felt raw, exposed, and vulnerable. Part of her wanted to slide off the bed and sleep on the floor, just to put some distance between them, but she knew if she did that, he’d insist on being the one to take the floor, and he’d know something was wrong. He couldn’t know something was wrong.
His hand was sliding up and down her back, and although it might be her favorite feeling in the world, she had to consciously stop herself from tensing up. Her mindwas spiraling, and she wasn’t even sure what the spiral was about.
“Well, you’ve fucked me, so thanks a lot,” Deacon stated in a not-so-happy tone. Areallynot-so-happy tone.
“Me?!” She lifted her head and looked at him as her stomach dropped out from under her. “What? Why? What did I do?”
Being in trouble, doing something wrong, hurting or disappointing the people she loved was her greatest fear. It was why cheating on Asher had nearly destroyed her.
“Do you know what Tabby’s favorite movie is?”
“Favorite movie?” The conversation had just taken a very sharp turn. “No.”
“It’sFinding Nemo,” he said as if that should be significant. When she didn’t respond, he questioned, “Have you seen it?”
“Yeah, but it’s been a long time.” Jenna hadn’t seen the movie in probably a decade. Blake was very sensitive, and she felt bad for Dory, so they’d only watched it once.
“Do you remember the seagulls?”
“The seagulls.” Jenna thought back and remembered them on the docks and then it came to her: they said “mine, mine, mine”over and over. Her eyes widened.
“Yeah.” He lifted his hand and brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. “Now every time that movie is on, I’m going to have to go do laps around the yard not to get hard when I hear those fucking seagulls.”
She started to laugh a little.
