Page 43 of Beautiful Savage
"Don't stop," he manages.
He's not flinching. His eyes stay on mine, steady and present. Watching me ride him like I'm the only thing worth seeing. A few weeks ago, he wouldn't look at my face. Now he's witnessing me completely. The attention I've craved since the conservatory dismissal is here in his eyes.
His hands on my hips guide without forcing. Letting me take what I need from him. He's letting me use his body for my pleasure. It's protection in its purest form. Protecting me from the version of himself that could just take control.
The synthesis hits me as I move above him. He's protecting me and seeing me in the same moment. Protection and visibility aren't opposites. They're happening simultaneously. He sees all of me. My hunger, my need. And he protects that woman, not some edited version.
I'm addicted to this. His attention. The way he sees exactly who I am and doesn't look away. This addiction runs deeper than want. I'll keep craving this. Keep needing him to see me like this.
The recognition lands without fanfare. I love him. Not soft love, but something fiercer. The love you feel for what finally lets you exist. Love as recognition. Love as finally being seen.
I keep riding. My pace increases, chasing the orgasm building in my core. My pussy makes wet sounds as I fuck myself on his cock.
He grabs my hand and puts it on my clit. "I want to watch you touch yourself while my cock is inside you," he demands.
His grip on my hips tightens, steadying me as I circle my clit. His eyes never leave my face. Watching me chase my pleasure. The combination is overwhelming. His thick length stretching me. My fingers on my clit. His unwavering gaze.
"That's it," he growls. "Use my cock. Take what you need."
The orgasm builds fast. My pussy starts to flutter around him. When it crests, I turn my face up to the moon. Let it witness what I've become. "Fuck, I'm coming!" I cry out. My pussy clamps down on his cock as waves of pleasure make me shake.
He follows immediately. His control finally breaks. "Fuck, Daphne," he groans. I see his unguarded face. Not sleeping, but release stripping away everything he maintains. His expression opens completely. Vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. His cock pulses inside me. Fills me with hot spurts while I'm still trembling.
"Stay," he says against my throat.
I collapse forward. My face finds his shoulder. His arms come around me, holding me close while we both catch our breath. We're still connected on this bench in this garden where his family could have seen everything.
I've done what I've done. Woken a man at three in the morning. Taken him to a garden where we could be discovered. Ridden him under the moon while naming love to myself. The woman in Pristine couldn't have done this. But that woman never existed. She was just a story I told to survive.
This is who I've always been. The woman who gets wet from being watched. Who needs someone to witness her actual selfwithout looking away. Who would choose visibility over safety because visibility was never the danger. Hiding was.
I lift my head from his shoulder. Meet his eyes in the moonlight. His hand comes up to touch my face. Gentle, like I'm something precious even covered in sweat and his cum.
His cock twitches inside me. Already beginning to harden again despite just finishing. "Again," he growls against my throat. His voice rough with renewed hunger. My body floods with fresh wetness immediately. Clenching around his growing length.
Dawn is still hours away, and we're both insatiable.
17 - Daphne
I’ve been pacing the apartment for forty minutes. Back and forth across the worn floorboards, from the window to the bed to the kitchen alcove, my body electric with a restlessness that has nowhere to go. Sunday afternoon light slants through the south window, thick and yellow as syrup, and I can’t sit still in it.
Gunner's been at his desk since before I woke. Hours now, laptop open, that focused stillness he gets when working security. Files spread across the oak surface. His phone face-up beside them, occasionally lighting with messages he reads but doesn't answer. The breakfast dishes still sit on the counter. He made eggs this morning, toast, even peeled another orange in those perfect five strips. We ate in silence, the weight of last night's public claim settling between us like something physical.
We'd fallen into his bed at five in the morning. He'd actually slept. Properly, not the wary surfacing-and-sinking he usually calls rest. I'd woken to find his arm heavy across my waist, possessive even unconscious.
My body remembers everything. The gold dress against my skin. Three hundred pairs of eyes watching us dance. His hand on my bare back, marking me as his in front of Miami's underworld. The way we moved together, no performance, no pretense, just the raw truth of what we've become to each other. The blood on his knuckles from the man who dared approach me.
Then the mirror. And the garden. The public claiming followed by the private.
I need to move. Need wind and speed and the engine between my thighs. The restlessness drives me to pace another circuit. Window to kitchen to bed and back again.
The helmet sits by the door where I left it after our last ride. Black and solid, waiting. I cross to it without thinking, pick it up, feel its familiar weight in my hands.
Behind me, I hear his chair push back. The soft scrape of wood on wood. I know without looking that his shoulders have tensed, that his fingers have drummed once against the desk then stopped. Tells I've learned to read over these weeks. Then footsteps. Three measured steps to his desk. The drawer slides open with a whisper of wood on wood.
I turn to watch him reach into the drawer, his hand disappearing into the dark interior. When it emerges, he's holding something small and metallic that catches the afternoon light. The bike key.
He walks to me, stopping an arm's length away. His gray eyes read my face. Not questioning, not forbidding. Just seeing what I need.
