Chapter 4: Let Me Feed You 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️

Sloane was clinging to him, his cock buried thick inside her, every nerve she had bunched at the place where his body opened hers. "Mm —" The drag of him over the spot inside her that lit up was relentless, and she couldn't get her hips to stop chasing it.

The women outside hadn't left yet. She could still hear their voices, the click of heels, the whoosh of the hand dryer. She was terrified she'd let a sound spill, so she sank her teeth into the front of his shoulder through the fabric of his suit. He didn't react. All his attention was wedged between her thighs, watching where his cock was disappearing into her.

The bathroom door swung shut. The voices faded.

Holden's mouth went straight to her ear.

"They're gone, baby. Let me hear you."

He drove up into her G-spot in three short, sharp thrusts. "Make some noise for me, Sloane. I can't make you feel good if you won't tell me what you like."

She knew exactly how loud her voice got when he was inside her. She knew what it did to him. And the stubborn thing in her — the thing that had shown up at eighteen and never quite died — bared its teeth.

"You — you want me to scream — and what — my voice is wrecked tomorrow — what then?"

The slap-slap-slap of his hips into her was rattling the entire stall. The metal door knocked her shoulder blades on every drive in. The thin straps of her dress had slipped halfway down her arms and most of her chest had spilled out of the bodice. Holden bent and caught her nipple in his mouth, tongue dragging hot and slow before his teeth closed around it and ground.

She cried out before she could stop herself. He sucked harder, deeper, and the pull went all the way down through her stomach to where he was inside her. Her arms came up around his neck — half pushing, half hauling him in.

And then the cock filling her got somehow thicker. Her body felt like it was being split.

"Let me feed you," he said into the wet skin of her breast. Voice ruined. "Open up, baby."

He went into her nine shallow strokes and one bone-deep — the rhythm she remembered from seven years ago, the one that had ruined her for everyone since. Within seconds the head of him was punching the deepest part of her, and the slick was overflowing past where they were joined, white foam streaking the trim hair at the base of him.

He could feel her getting close. He stopped holding back.

She was past speech. Her face was hot, her vision tunneling, the tight ring of her muscles squeezing around him out of rhythm. Her thighs were locked at his waist and the inside of them had gone numb from the impact.

"Holden — Holden, I'm — I'm going to — "

She tipped her head back against the door, eyes searching for something, anything to grab onto, and reached up blindly until her hands found the upper edge of the partition. She fisted it. Held on.

He stopped playing. He was a piledriver now, every stroke aimed at the same spot, brutal, perfect.

"Faster — Holden, please —"

That was all she could get out. Her eyes had gone unfocused. The ceiling tile above his shoulder blurred to a smear.

The veins along his cock were standing up. He was so hard inside her she could feel every ridge as he dragged out and shoved back in. The slick was slapping out of her with every thrust, soaking the inside of her thighs and the front of his slacks.

She was clamping down on him so tight he had to fight his way back in each time. Her arms were a vice around his neck and she was breathing in great gulps with her head thrown back.

After thirty more strokes her thighs started to shake — long, wild, uncontrollable shudders — and her whole field of vision went white. The slick poured out of her around him.

The wet rush of her against the head of his cock — the searing heat, the way her cunt locked down — broke him. He shoved up to the hilt, jerked once, and came hard inside her.

They were both drenched in sweat. She slumped forward into the front of his shirt, panting against his collarbone, and let him stay buried in her.

He took a few deep breaths himself, then carefully pivoted them and sat down on the closed lid of the toilet with her in his lap. His palm slid up her spine, slow, helping her breathe.

"You came inside me." It was the first thing she said, chest still heaving.

"Mm. Wasn't planning on it."

He pushed the damp strands off her forehead. From the inside pocket of his jacket he produced a folded handkerchief — actual cotton, monogrammed, because of course — and dabbed at the sweat on her temples.

She let her cheek rest against his shoulder and let him fuss. The aftercare came back to her like an old language. Holden Ashworth was the only man who'd ever cleaned her up with a handkerchief from his suit. After everything, that hadn't changed.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Whatever the right thing was to say, she didn't have it.

"Whatever," she said finally. "Done is done."

She felt him press his lips to her temple. He liked her like this. He had always liked her like this — pliant, foggy, the version of her that didn't have anything sharp to say. The one only he ever got to see.

"My dress is wrecked." She glanced down at the silk. The bodice was torn at the seam, the slick from both of them blotting darker into the red. "It was expensive."

He kissed her forehead. "I'll replace it."

The stall went quiet. For a long moment neither of them said anything.

"I don't need anything from you, Mr. Ashworth."

She braced one hand on the wall and pushed herself off his lap. He slipped out of her as she stood and her knees buckled — she nearly went straight back down. He caught her, steadying.

"You good?"

She tugged the wreckage of the red dress back into place. Shot him a look. "If I weren't, you'd have killed me seven years ago."

He huffed a laugh, low.

"Your slacks are a mess," she said. "You handle that."

She turned to leave. He caught her wrist.

"You're walking out like that?" His eyes scanned her up and down, an eyebrow raised. "Not worried what they're going to say?"

She shrugged one bare shoulder, indifferent. "Couldn't be worse than what they used to say."

He didn't answer that.

She glanced at herself, conceded the point, and reached up to slide his suit jacket off his shoulders. Slipped it on over her own. Cracked the stall door.

"Thanks," she said, dry.

Holden's brow furrowed. He didn't know what she meant by Chicago. Didn't know why she'd shown up here, in his city, in his life. Didn't know why she'd let him fuck her again.

He still didn't have answers about seven years ago either.

He tucked himself back into his slacks, dragged the zipper up one-handed, fastened the belt. Then he scooped her off her feet — bridal-style, one arm under her knees, the other braced behind her back — and walked her out.

She made a small involuntary sound. Tucked her face into his neck.

"Holden, put me down."