Chapter 8: Claire POV
My heart stutters, and I nod, words caught in my throat. His hand finds mine, fingers interlocking, and we move as one through the dimly lit foyer, up the creaking staircase. Each step feels like a promise, the air between us humming with unspoken need.
In his bedroom, the world shrinks to just us, his shadowed eyes, the soft thud of the door closing, the faint scent of cedar and him.
He steps closer, his hands gentle as they find the buttons of my dress. One by one, they give way under his careful fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. The fabric slips down my shoulders, pooling at my feet, and I'm bare before him, vulnerable but unafraid. His eyes trace my curves, dark with hunger, but his touch remains soft, reverent. "Claire," he murmurs, my name a low, sacred thing on his lips. I reach for his shirt, fingers trembling with anticipation, fumbling at the buttons. He chuckles, a soft, real sound that makes my chest ache, and helps me, shrugging the fabric off to reveal the hard planes of his chest.
We're a tangle of touches, exploratory and unhurried. His lips brush my neck, featherlight, sending shivers cascading down my spine. I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging gently, and he hums against my skin, the vibration sparking heat low in my belly. His hands skim my sides, thumbs grazing the undersides of my breasts, teasing without claiming. I arch into him, craving more, and he obliges, his mouth trailing lower, kissing the hollow of my collarbone, then the swell of my breast. He pauses, lips hovering over my nipple, his breath hot and maddening. My fingers tighten in his hair, urging him on, and he takes me into his mouth, tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles. A moan escapes me, loud in the quiet room, and he groans in response, the sound raw and needy.
"God, Claire," he whispers, pulling back to meet my eyes. His hands slide to my hips, guiding me to the bed, and I sink onto the soft sheets, pulling him down with me. We're a mess of limbs, kissing deeply, tongues dancing in a rhythm that feels both new and eternal. His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, inching higher, teasing the edge of my underwear. I whimper, hips lifting, and he smiles against my lips, wicked and tender all at once. "Patience," he murmurs, but his voice is strained, betraying his own need.
He hooks his fingers into the lace, sliding it down my legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked on mine. The air feels charged, every nerve alight as he kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin just above my hip. My breath hitches as he parts my thighs, his lips brushing the tender skin there, teasing, tasting. When his mouth finally finds me, it's a slow, deliberate exploration, soft licks, gentle sucks, his tongue circling with a precision that makes my toes curl.
I'm unraveling, hands clutching the sheets, his name spilling from my lips in a breathless chant. He doesn't rush, savoring every reaction, every gasp, until I'm trembling on the edge, pleading for release. "Please," I gasp, and he presses a finger inside me, then two, curling them just right. The world shatters, pleasure crashing through me in waves, and I cry out, his name a prayer.
He crawls back up, kissing me deeply, and I taste myself on his lips, the intimacy of it sending a fresh surge of want through me. My hands roam his chest, nails grazing his skin, and I tug at his belt, desperate to feel him. He helps, shedding the rest of his clothes, and I pause to take him in, hard and ready, his body a map of desire. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, relishing the way his breath catches, the way his hips buck slightly. "Claire," he groans, and I lean in, licking a slow stripe up his length, teasing the tip with my tongue. His hands fist in my hair, gentle but firm, and I take him deeper, savoring his low moans, the way he trembles under my touch.
But he pulls me up, eyes blazing with something fierce. "I need you," he says, voice rough, and I nod, heart pounding. He lays me back, settling between my legs, and enters me slowly, inch by inch, letting me adjust to the fullness. It's gentle, almost achingly so, each thrust measured, his eyes locked on mine as if I'm the only thing that exists. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, and we move together, a slow, tender dance. His lips find mine, kissing me like he's memorizing me, and I cling to him, lost in the joy of it, in the way he holds me, like I'm not just a substitute, like I'm his.
But something shifts. His kisses grow hungrier, his thrusts deeper, a primal edge to the way he grips my hips. "Tell me you want this," he growls, and I nod, breathless. "Say it, Claire."
"I want you," I gasp, and it's like a dam breaks. He flips me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up, and enters me again, harder this time, the angle stealing my breath. His hands grip my waist, possessive, and each thrust is a claim, rough and unyielding. I push back against him, meeting his rhythm, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. "More," I beg, and he obliges, one hand sliding between my legs, fingers circling my clit in time with his thrusts. The pleasure is overwhelming, building to a crescendo, and I'm moaning, loud and shameless.
He pulls out suddenly, flipping me onto my back again, and I whine at the loss. But then he's on me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, his mouth on my breasts, biting and sucking until I'm writhing. "You're mine tonight," he says, voice low and dangerous, and I nod, lost in the intensity of his gaze. He spreads my legs wide, hooking them over his shoulders, and thrusts back in, deep and relentless. The new angle hits every nerve, and I'm spiraling, clawing at his back, nails leaving marks. He groans, liking the sting, and picks up the pace, each thrust harder, faster, until the bed creaks beneath us.
"Touch yourself," he commands, and I do, fingers slipping between us, rubbing in frantic circles as he watches, eyes dark with lust. The sight of him, sweat-slicked, muscles flexing, lost in me, pushes me over the edge. I come hard, crying out, my body clenching around him, and he follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills inside me, his thrusts slowing but not stopping until we're both spent.
We collapse, breathless, tangled in the sheets. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath my ear. I replay every second, the way he said my name, not hers, the way he saw me. My heart's so full it hurts, but doubt creeps in, does he feel this too, or is it just a moment? His breathing slows, and I trace circles on his skin, wanting to ask but too scared of the answer. "Claire," he murmurs, half-asleep, his arm tightening around me. "Thank you."
I smile, pressing a kiss to his chest, but the question lingers, heavy and unspoken, as I drift into the warmth of his embrace.
I smile, tears pricking my eyes, but I don't speak. I'm still floating, still his, when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He stirs, glancing at the screen, and his face tightens. He slips out of bed, grabbing the phone, and steps onto the balcony, closing the glass door behind him.