Page 190 of Controlled Burn
She landed on her back—legs spread, hair wild on the pillow, yellow cotton tangled at her waist.
Dean hovered above her, starving. “You look like fucking sunshine.” His fingers dragged from her ankle to her knee, then up, slow, deliberate.
She whimpered, hips lifting.
The dress went to her waist. Panties gone. His thumb circled her clit, brutal and sure. She bucked, crying out, hands fisting the sheets.
“Dean—”
Two fingers pushed inside her, slow and deep. She clenched, body betraying every shield she’d built.
“Still so tight,” he whispered, watching her writhe. “Fuck, I missed this.”
He worked her—thumb on her clit, fingers curling—until she broke, hips chasing his hand, begging, “Please, don’t stop.”
She came hard, sobbing his name, legs shaking against his chest.
Only then did he strip off his shirt, dragging the dress over her head, leaving her naked and wrecked beneath him.
Forehead pressed to hers, eyes burning. “You sure?”
She reached for his belt. “I want all of it.”
He thrust inside her, deep and relentless. She arched, nails clawing his back, moaning into his mouth.
He fucked her like he was angry—at her, at himself, at everything. Every thrust a claim, every gasp a confession. He pinned her wrists above her head, breath harsh in her ear.
“Tell me who you belong to.”
She writhed. “You. I’m yours.”
She hated how fast she gave it. How much she meant it.
He groaned, broken, pressing harder, faster. Sweat slicked between them, the yellow dress twisted like a banner at her waist.
She bit his shoulder. He bit back. She begged for more. He gave it until they were both wrecked, until she shattered again and he followed, growling her name, body shaking.
After, silence. Just breath. Just the hum of the broken AC.
Dean sat up, dragging the yellow dress over her, covering her bare shoulders. He kissed her temple, thumb brushing her bruised hip.
She blinked up at him. “You still like hurting me.”
“Only because you want it,” he said simply.
Her smirk softened into something quieter.
He handed her water, uncapped it, held it steady as she drank. His hand trembled. Knuckles raw.
She closed her eyes, drifting, the air thick with sweat, sex, and the faint citrus of the dress.
Dean brushed her hair back. “Stay.”
She smiled, small and sad. “For a while.”
He pulled her into his chest, chin on her hair, hand heavy on her thigh.
She felt safe. Wrecked. Alive. Like she’d been unmade, then remade in the shape of him.
