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Did I strip in record time and shove my panties in his mouth? Fuck yes. Did he moan and lick them? Fuck yeah he did.
Right before he can drag me to the floor and fuck me stupid, I press a hand to his chest and offer a breathless suggestion that makes him pause.
“How about we take this upstairs?” I murmur, eyes locked on his. “I want a new memory to think about every time I step into that bathroom.”
I flash him a crooked grin, wicked and knowing. “Just…don’t bust a nut on the good hand towels.”
His hazel eyes darken instantly—hungry, feral—and the next thing I know, I’m tossed over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, his hand gripping the back of my thigh as he takes the stairs two at a time.
He sets me down on the cold tile like I might break—carefully, deliberately—but there’s nothing gentle in the way his hands linger. The floor sends a jolt through my bare skin, the chill blooming up my spine, grounding me even as heat pulses low in my belly.
His palm doesn’t leave me. It travels—slow and reverent—from the crown of my head, fingers threading through my hair, dragging down until he reaches my chin. He tilts my face up, thumb grazing the edge of my jaw, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to see inside the parts I still keep hidden.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice rough—gravel and smoke. “How’d you fantasize this going?”
That voice wraps around my nerves, slow and insistent, making my breath hitch.
“Fantasize?” I ask, raising a brow like I’ve still got some composure left. I don’t.
His fingers curl a lock of my hair around themselves, winding slow, lazy, possessive. “Yeah, baby. Tell me. I want to hear how you pictured it. What you thought I’d do to you. What you wanted.”
I exhale slowly, the air shaky. My heart’s hammering, my thighs sticky in anticipation of him.
“Well,” I murmur, eyes flicking toward the mirror behind him, “my ass is bruised.”
He follows my gaze, and the shift in him is immediate—his whole body stills, coiled tight. In the mirror, the handprints glow fresh and flushed across the curve of my ass, angry and beautiful in equal measure.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he bites down on it, slow and hard.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty.”
I watch his pupils darken, his breath catch, and I know I have him right where I want him. I reach for the buttons on his uniform, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate, like unwrapping something I’ve waited a long time to deserve.
“Henry Wilder,” I murmur, eyes never leaving his, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret…”
I part the fabric and press my palms to his chest, dragging my nails down the hard lines of muscle, watching the way his massive frame tenses beneath the touch.
“You,” I breathe, “are the fantasy.”
His breath stutters.
I let my nails bite in a little deeper, leaving faint red trails across his skin. His whole body coils, jaw tight, restraint rippling just under the surface. But he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t flinch.
“I love when you're rough,” I whisper, lips brushing the curve of his shoulder as I slide his shirt off. “Not because you always choose to be—but because when I’m with you, I get to let go. I get to surrender, and know you’ll catch me. Every time.”
I step behind him, letting my fingers trace over the ink scrawled across his back—slow, reverent. Like scripture I’ve memorized in the dark.
“The only thing I want you to do,” I murmur, stepping into him until our bodies almost touch, “is bend me over that sink and fuck me until I can’t stand.”
His breath catches, but I’m not done.
“But first,” I continue, softer now, steadier, “I want you to give me some of that weight you carry so fucking effortlessly. Not because I’m strong enough to take it…but because I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
His chest rises like a tidal wave threatening to break—and still, he says nothing. Just listens.
I reach down, unfasten his belt with slow, deliberate fingers, and slide the leather free from his belt loops with a sound that hums in the air between us.
“Hands,” I say, voice like velvet dragged over steel.
