Page 148 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Yes, Hux.” I position his cock at my entrance, shuddering with anticipation. “I’m going to burn us both to the ground.”
He thrusts up as I impale myself, his cock pushing inside me, raw and perfect, every inch a shock to the system. His piercing hits my g-spot just right, feeling so damn good. I brace myself with hands on his chest, his heart thundering under my palms. I ride him, my pace starting slowly.
My intention isn’t to dominate or punish. I want to be seen. I want, for once, to not be afraid of what a man will do with all of me. Hux didn’t hold back earlier when I was on my knees for him. The least I can do is give him everything I’ve got.
His hands roam my thighs, gripping tight, then softening, then gripping again as if he might lose his place. He reaches up and cups my tits with both hands, thumbs teasing my nipples until I arch my back and moan. Maybe he already knows that they’re my secret weakness. My cheat code. He works it without mercy or hesitation. Each brush and pinch sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core, winding me up tighter and tighter as I grind down onto him, chasing the friction that will tip me over.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he croons, low and amazed, like he’s still not sure this is real. “Look at how well you’re riding my cock. God, your tits, your mouth, your thighs. Ican’t. I’m losing my mind.”
Every word, every curse, is like cool water being poured over my sunburned flesh. I crave his words, his praise, his coming apart. Every inch of my body flushes, sweat beading on my skin as I move harder, faster, drunk on the way we fit together. The bed creaks beneath us, wood hitting drywall with a slow, steady rhythm that grows frantic as we do.
My lips tip up as I wonder how hard I’ll have to work to get him to demolish this frame, too. How long will it last? Not long, I hope.
He sits up, burying his face in my chest, licking and biting. Then he’s sucking my nipples until I moan, until I scream, until I can’t remember my name. The sensation is so sharp, so good, that I almost sob with it. I clutch his head to me, tangle my fingers in his sweat-damp hair, and fuck him with everything I’ve got, wanting to be ruined by it.
Fuck it, Iamruined by him.
He’s close. His hips jerk, and desperately grinding deeper. He wants to make me feel it, like he’s trying to get under my skin. I want him to lose control. I want him to break.
When I come, it crashes over me like a tidal wave. Violent, relentless, washing away every defense I ever built. I scream his name, not even bothering to muffle it. I dig my nails into his shoulders and ride him through the aftershocks, shaking, grateful, stunned.
But he doesn’t stop. He shifts, twists us so I’m flat on my back and he’s above me. He pins my wrists to the mattress and pounds into me with a single-minded focus that borders on obsession. There’s sweat dripping from his forehead, his jaw clenched as if he’s in pain, his entire body vibrating with the need to let go and the fear of what will happen when he does.
“Come for me again,” he growls. “Give it to me, Firecracker. I want to watch you fall apart.”
He lets go of one wrist and brings his hand down between us. He rubs my clit in hard, tight circles. The world whites out. Stars behind my eyes, toes curling, lungs empty of air. I shatter for him, again. And this time it’s not just physical. It feels like something is breaking open inside, like he’s touching parts of me that have never seen daylight. It feels like being baptized and born anew.
He loses it. Burying his face in my neck, he clutches my waist. He comes so hard I feel it in every cell, every vein, every nerve ending. His hips snap, pumping, as he fills my pussy with lashes of his hot cum. His cry is low and desperate, my name muffled in my hair. I hold him as he trembles through his orgasm, his hands tightening on my body until I’m sure he’ll leave marks.
“Oh, Monroe,” he mumbles. Tension seeps from him as he kisses me, fumbling, desperate. “Fuck, baby. Fuck.”
I smooth a hand over his messy dark blonde hair. I’m not sure I can speak yet, so it’ll have to do. He carefully shifts his weight so that I’m lying partially on his body, our limbs tangled, our breath hard.
God, that was reverential. It waslife-changing.
Everything that usually swirls in my brain is gone. He makes the static in my brain quieter.
I notice a sketchbook half-hidden in his bedside drawer. Without thinking, I reach for it and flip it open.
The drawing on the current page takes my breath away.
It’s me. But not sexual or idealized. It’s intimate in a way that goes deeper than physical. Emotional and honest. He’s captured something in my expression that I didn’t even know was there, some softness I only show when I think no one is looking.
“Huxley,” I breathe.
He tries to take the notepad from me, his face flushed with embarrassment. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Don’t.” I hold it away from him, still staring at the drawing. “This is beautiful. This is how you see me?”
His mouth flexes as if he’s not sure what expression he wants to make. “Sometimes. When you think no one’s watching.”
“I love it.” The words come out more intense than I intended, but I mean them. “No one’s ever looked at me like this, let alone drawn it.”
He relaxes slightly, but I can tell he’s still self-conscious about showing me this side of himself.
“I used to write and sketch a lot,” he says quietly. “Before everything got complicated. It’s the only time my brain shuts up.”
I flip through a few more pages, seeing sketches of his teammates, letters scrawled in his intense, blocky half-cursive, diagrams of X’s and O’s on a hand-drawn hockey rink outline. Arrows cut across the diagram, tracing a path that feels less like strategy and more like choreography. There’s control in it, discipline, and an instinct for movement that goes far beyond brute force.
