Chapter 435: Cum Inside Me R18

His hand came to the back of her head. Not pushing. Just there.

"Jade," he said.

She looked up at him without stopping. The dark eyes, full version, watching him come apart.

He didn’t. Not yet. He held it, the way he held everything, and she worked him with her mouth and her hand together, and the sounds he made were small and precise and exactly what she wanted.

When she finally pulled off him, her lips were wet and her chin was slick and she was breathing harder than she’d meant to.

"On the bed," she said.

He moved.

She stood and shed the last of her underwear and followed him down.

He was on his back when she reached him, and she climbed over him and straddled his hips and looked down at his face. His hands came to her thighs, not gripping, just present. His eyes stayed on hers.

She reached between them and guided him to her entrance. She was wet—had been wet since the gallery, since she’d stopped walking and told him her apartment was six minutes away—and he slid into her easily at first. Just the head. Then more.

She sank down onto him and felt every inch of him stretch her open.

Her breath stopped. Her hips stilled. She held herself there, fully seated, feeling the width and length of him pressed up into the deepest part of her, and her eyes closed for the first time all night.

"Look at me," he said.

She opened them.

"That’s it," he said.

She began to move.

She rode him the way she’d fenced—economy of motion, no waste, every shift of her hips deliberate and exact. She found the angle that made him hit the spot inside her that made her breath catch, and she set a rhythm on it, and she watched his face while she did it. Watching him watch her. Watching the stillness become focus become something less controlled.

His hands moved to her hips. He didn’t take over. He just held on.

"You’re so fucking tight," he said. Quiet. Almost conversational.

"I know," she said.

"You’re going to come like this."

"Probably."

"Do it."

She did.

It built in her the way it always built—slow, deep, the muscle tightening around him in waves she couldn’t stop. Her rhythm broke. Her breath broke. Her hands came down on his chest and her nails pressed into his skin and she made a sound that was not planned and not prevented, low and raw in her throat.

He watched her the whole way through.

When she was done, she was shaking. She held herself over him and breathed and felt him still hard inside her.

"Good," he said.

She didn’t answer. She pulled off him and moved to lie on her back.

"Your turn," she said.

He rolled on top of her. Braced on his forearms. Looked down at her face from inches away.

Then he pushed inside her again.

The stretch was different from this angle—deeper, fuller, the head of him pressed against something that made her whole pelvis ache with pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in and he began to move with a steady, focused rhythm that matched the pace of his attention.

He didn’t look away. Neither did she.

Three months of adjacency. The withdrawal she’d decided before she told him. The gallery. The photograph. The suspended instant between decision and consequence.

All of it was in this.

"Fuck," she said.

"Yeah."

"Harder."

He gave her harder.

The sound of skin on skin filled the room. Her bed was firm and didn’t move much, so every thrust landed clean, and she felt each one in her whole body—the impact traveling up through her spine, the wet heat of him sliding in and out of her, the specific fullness of being taken by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Deeper," she said.

He shifted his angle and drove in deeper.

Her back arched. Her hands fisted in the sheets. The perfect control she carried everywhere—the economy, the precision, the reading of the room—started to come apart at the edges.

"Look at me," he said.

She did.

"Tell me," he said.

"Everything," she said. "I want everything."

"You have it."

"Show me."

He showed her.

He fucked her with that same focused rhythm until she was making sounds she couldn’t have predicted, and then he pulled out and turned her over. One hand on her hip. The other flat between her shoulder blades. He pressed her down into the mattress and slid back inside from behind, and the angle made her gasp.

"Like this?" he said.

"Yes."

He moved.

He set a punishing pace from behind—still controlled, still exact, but harder now, deeper, every thrust landing against the spot that made her see white at the edges. She gripped the sheets and pushed back into him and let him take her apart.

He drove in harder.

She came again—the second one building fast and breaking hard, her whole body clenching around him in waves that made him groan behind her. He held his rhythm through it. Didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

When she was done, he pulled out and turned her onto her back again.

"I want to see your face," he said.

She let him.

He slid back inside her and braced himself above her and looked down into her eyes, and this time he didn’t break the rhythm or the gaze. He fucked her with a steady, focused pace that matched the intensity of the suspended instant they’d stood in front of at the gallery—the moment between decision and consequence, prolonged past its natural length, held open by sheer concentration.

She watched him the whole time. Watched the stillness become focus become something finally breaking.

"Come inside me," she said.

"I will."

"Now."

"Not yet."

He kept going. Deep, steady, watching her face. She felt every inch of him and every pulse of her own body answering, and she felt the third orgasm building behind the second like a wave she couldn’t stop.

"I’m going to come again," she said.

"Good."

"With you."

"Good."

She did.

The third one broke over her while he was still moving, and the clench of her around him finally took him with her—his rhythm breaking at last, his hips driving in deep and staying there, his whole body going still above her as he emptied himself inside her in long, hot pulses she could feel against her cervix.

He stayed there. Inside her. Looking down at her face.

Neither of them moved.

The apartment was quiet around them. The city outside. The lamp in the other room.

Her hand came up to his jaw. The same way it had at the door.

"There," she said.

He held her gaze.

"I know," he said.

He didn’t pull out. She didn’t ask him to. They stayed like that—joined, breathing, the decision finally arrived at its consequence—and the night settled around them.