Page 147 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

And God help me?—

I’ve never wanted to prove it more.

“Good girl. Now, have you ever done anal before, luv?” Hank’s thumb drags across my lower lip with deliberate slowness, the slightly rough pad catching on the sensitive skin. His smirk deepens, eyes darkening to the color of storm clouds as he studies my reaction.

The question shouldn’t make my stomach clench the way it does—shouldn’t send that electric pulse of heat straight to my core, shouldn’t make my skin flush with a mixture of apprehension and forbidden curiosity.

But it does.

“Only once.” A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine, raising goosebumps across my skin despite the heat of his proximity. The words feel raw in my throat, a confession I hadn’t planned to make.

“And how was it for you?” Hank’s gaze intensifies, turning molten with focus. His fingers gently cup my chin, the touch firm but not forceful—a connection rather than a demand. Heat radiates from his palm, seeping into my jawline as his thumb traces idle patterns against my skin.

I hesitate, something tight curling in my chest, my pulse hammering beneath the delicate skin of my wrists and my throat.

The memory flickers—disjointed, unremarkable. The dull ache, the way I endured it rather than experienced it. The way I counted the seconds and minutes, willing it to be over while pretending it wasn’t happening at all.

“It hurt. It wasn’t… ” My voice catches, throat constricting around words I’ve never spoken aloud. “It wasn’t something I enjoyed.” I swallow, my voice quieter, almost a whisper, as if speaking it at full volume might summon the ghost of that discomfort back into my body.

Hank watches me closely. Too closely.

His eyes narrow, pupils contracting to pinpoints of intense focus as if he’s peeling back the layers, reading more in my answer than I even know how to express. The muscle in his jaw jumps, a quick spasm of tension he can’t quite control.

“It hurt?” His grip remains firm, but his expression shifts—softening around the eyes while hardening everywhere else, something dangerous simmering beneath the surface.

Not for me. Never for me. But for someone who isn’t here, someone who left their mark on me in ways Hank can read like braille.

“He made me.” Saying it out loud feels like peeling back skin.

Raw. Exposed. Real.

The admission rips away a protective layer I didn’t know I’d wrapped around the memory. It makes something twist inside me—anger, maybe. Shame. Relief. All tangling together into a knot beneath my ribs.

Hank’s eyes flash, molten gold igniting in their depths, jaw tightening with an audible click of teeth. His nostrils flare slightly, and the controlled fury in his expression is both terrifying and strangely comforting.

“Whoever the fuck that guy was, he wasn’t invested in pleasing you. He didn’t care how it made you feel—just that he got what he wanted.”

I blink, my breath catching in my throat. The truth of his words hits hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. No one has ever named it so plainly—the selfishness, the one-sided taking disguised as mutual pleasure.

“Anal shouldn’t hurt.” His voice is low and rough, vibrating with conviction that sinks into my bones. “It should make you moan. Make you shake so hard you forget your name.” His fingers tighten fractionally, demanding my complete attention. “You should want it, crave it—not endure it.”

He leans in, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat of his breath against my lips, his thumb still brushing my lower lip, the gentle pressure anchoring me with that touch.The scent of him—woodsy and masculine with a hint of whiskey—envelops me, making my head swim.

“Listen to me.” His voice is silk and steel—commanding, undeniable, laced with a dominance that makes my inner muscles clench with a visceral response. “While Gabe and I might take you for our pleasure from time to time—” his lips curve into a wicked smirk that promises sin and salvation in equal measure, “—and yeah, sometimes we’ll be selfish bastards about it… this.” He gestures between us, the movement sharp and definitive, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes escape impossible, unwanted. “This is about you.”

A tremor runs through me, starting at the base of my spine and radiating outward, leaving me shaking in its wake. My breath emerges shaky, uneven, lips parting beneath the pad of his thumb as something unfamiliar and dangerous unfurls in my chest—trust, perhaps.

Or surrender.

The knowledge that beneath his dominant exterior lies a man who sees me—who wants what I want, who will push me to the edge but never over it without my consent.

“We want you to feel good. To enjoy every second. We want you to want it as much as we do. But not if you’re afraid. Not if it makes you tense up or shut down.”

His fingers tilt my chin with gentle command, holding me steady in a grip that’s both tender and uncompromising.

“Do you trust me to make it feel good?” His voice drops lower, the timbre rich and dark as aged bourbon, wrapping around me like a tangible promise. “To show you how good it can feel?”

“Yes,” I whisper, the word carried on a breath that shudders past my lips. “I trust you.” My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged thing, my body already aching for him—for them—nerve endings awakening with anticipation I’ve never allowed myself before.

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