Chapter 5: Glorious cock

Freya's POV

I changed in his bathroom with shaking hands.

The wedding gown lay in a sodden heap on the tile floor like something dead. I peeled it off—lace sticking to my skin, cold and clammy—and stepped into the shower for thirty seconds, just long enough to rinse the rain and mascara from my face. No soap. No time to feel clean. I just needed to stop shivering.

His T-shirt was huge on me. Soft gray cotton that fell to mid-thigh, sleeves past my elbows. I found a pair of his ordinary black sweatpants in the hamper—way too big, but I rolled the waistband twice and cinched it tight. The shirt hung loose, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide how hard my nipples were. They poked through like they had a mind of their own.

I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.

Mascara gone. Hair dripping. Cheeks flushed from crying and cold. But my eyes—they looked different. Sharper. Hungrier.

I stepped out.

Ryder was already back, standing by the bed with a small ceramic jug of coffee and two mugs. He’d put on a black T-shirt, but it clung to his damp skin, outlining every ridge of muscle. The trousers were still low on his hips.

He looked at me.

For one long second his gaze didn’t move—just swept down my body, lingering on the way the shirt draped over my breasts, the hard peaks pressing against the cotton, the rolled waistband of his pants sitting low on my hips.

Something flickered in his eyes.

Not pity.

Not anger.

Hunger.

Then he blinked, looked away fast, cleared his throat.

“Coffee,” he said, voice rougher than before. He poured into both mugs, steam curling up between us.

I stepped closer—too close—pretending to reach for the mug.

My elbow “accidentally” knocked his wrist.

Hot coffee sloshed out of the mug—straight down the front of his trousers.

Not scalding. Just enough to soak through instantly, darkening the fabric over his thighs and crotch.

I gasped—loud, and dramatic.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry!”

My hands were already moving—grabbing the roll of paper towels from the counter, tearing off sheets, pressing them against the wet patch on his thigh.

He sucked in a breath.

“It’s fine,” he said tightly. “I’ll just change.”

“No, no—let me clean it up before it stains.” I was already tugging gently on his arm, guiding him toward the bathroom. “Come on, it’ll only take a second.”

He hesitated—jaw tight—but let me lead him.

Mostly because I was moving fast.

Mostly because he didn’t want a scene.

I shut the bathroom door behind us.

Click.

The sound was loud in the small space.

“Just so the coffee smell doesn’t spread,” I said innocently.

He stood by the sink, arms tense at his sides.

I grabbed a fresh washcloth, ran it under warm water, wrung it out.

“Kneel?” I asked sweetly.

He didn’t move.

I dropped to my knees in front of him anyway.

The wet patch was right at eye level.

I started dabbing—gentle at first, high on his thigh. Then higher. Then directly over the thick bulge already starting to swell under the soaked fabric.

He froze.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly, voice strained. “I can handle it from here.”

I looked up at him through my lashes.

“I feel so bad. Let me make it right.”

I pressed the warm cloth firmer—not stroking yet, just holding it there, letting the heat and pressure sink in. I could feel him thickening beneath it, growing harder despite himself.

His hand landed on my shoulder—gentle, trying to push me back.

“We can’t,” he said, almost a growl. “That's enough. I'm fine.”

I didn’t move.

Instead I leaned my cheek against his thigh—just for a second—soft, innocent-looking, but very deliberate.

“I know,” I whispered. “But you’re already getting hard… I can feel it. It’s okay. No one has to know.”

His breathing turned rough.

He tried one more time.

“Get up, girl.”

I didn’t.

I dragged the cloth up and down once—very slow—then let it drop.

My bare fingers replaced it, tracing the outline of him through the wet trousers. He was thick and long. Already straining.

He groaned despite himself.

His hand moved from my shoulder to the back of my head—not pulling me closer, just resting there like he was fighting himself.

I looked up again.

“Let me see it. Just once. No one will know.”

He went still.

He stared at me in disbelief, his brows furrowing slightly.

But then, he was silent. For a long beat.

I didn't wait for his permission.

Then—very slowly—my fingers moved to his belt.

He didn’t stop me.

I unbuckled it.

Unbuttoned him.

Pulled the zipper down with my teeth—slow, looking up the whole time, eyes locked on his.

His boxers were tented. A dark spot of pre-cum already showing through the cotton.

I didn’t yank them down right away.

First I kissed the wet spot—soft, open-mouthed kisses, letting my tongue press against the fabric so he could feel the heat through the cotton.

He muttered “Jesus…” and his hand tightened in my hair.

Only then did I ease the waistband down.

His cock sprang free—thick, veined, heavy, already leaking at the tip.

My mouth watered instantly.

Oh my god.

Glorious cock.

It was huge.

Nothing like Dylan’s small, underwhelming dick.

And he’d had the nerve to call me a rag doll?

I stared at it for several seconds, breathing on it, letting him feel the warm air.

Then—a single slow lick from base to tip. One long, wet stripe.

He jerked.

His hand in my hair went rigid.

“Girl,” he said, voice low and edged with ice, “what the hell are you doing?”

I looked up at him through my lashes, lips still hovering near the head.

“Making it right,” I whispered. “Someone said I was awful in bed. I’m proving it wrong.”

His gaze darkened—slowly, dangerously. The air in the bathroom shifted, like the temperature dropped ten degrees. That dominant aura he carried everywhere thickened until it felt hard to breathe.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t soften.

He looked down at me like I was something reckless and foolish that had just stepped way out of line.

“You’re twenty-four years old. My step-son's age.” he said, voice cold steel. “I’m old enough to be your father. You think this is a game? Get up. Now.”

The command was quiet.

But it carried weight—like the room itself obeyed him.

I didn’t move.

Instead I dragged my tongue along the underside again—slower this time—watching his jaw clench, watching the muscle in his cheek tick.

His nostrils flared.

“Stop,” he said, colder. “I’m not asking.”

But his cock twitched against my tongue harder.

I wrapped my fingers around the base barely able to close them and gave one slow pump.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Little girl,” he growled, voice dropping an octave, “you have no idea what you’re starting.”

His hand in my hair wasn’t gentle anymore—it tightened, tilting my head back so I had to look up at him fully. His eyes were black now, pupils blown, that cold, controlled mask cracking just enough to show the storm underneath.

“You think you can kneel there, look up at me with those big eyes, and I’ll forget who I am?” he said quietly. “I’m not some boy you can tease. I’m forty-three. I’ve broken stronger women than you without even trying. So get. Up.”

I felt the chill of his words, the sheer weight of his dominance pressing down on me.

But I also felt how hard he was—throbbing in my hand, leaking steadily now.

I leaned forward and kissed the tip—soft, reverent—then looked up again.

“You’re right,” I whispered. “You’re not some boy. That’s why I want this. That’s why I want you.”

His grip in my hair flexed—painful for a second, then loosening like he was fighting himself.

“Last warning,” he said, voice almost a snarl. “Stand up, or I will make you stand up. And you won’t like how.”

I smiled—small, reckless, defiant.

“Then make me. Ruin me, Daddy.”

His eyes flashed.

For one long, electric second, neither of us moved.

Then—very slowly—his other hand came down, cupping my jaw, thumb pressing against my bottom lip.

“You’re playing with fire, little girl” he murmured, voice dark and dangerous. “And I don’t play nice when I burn.”

He didn’t push me away.

He didn’t pull me closer.

He just held me there—thumb parting my lips slightly—letting me feel the full weight of what I’d just started.

And in that moment, I knew:

I wasn’t the rag doll anymore.

I was the match.

And he was already catching.