Secretly Married To My Neighbour {04}

The single, gritted-out word was a promise and a punctuation mark. Two. The sound of it, heavy with his satisfaction, seemed to hang in the air of the private cabin, thicker than the jet’s own hum.

He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried inside me, a solid, unmoving anchor as the last tremors of my second climax finally subsided. My forehead rested on the cool leather of the seat, my entire body lax and humming, held up only by the cage of his arms and the relentless press of him within me. I was utterly spent, a vessel filled and overflowing. I thought, dimly, that we might be finished. That the storm had passed.

I was wrong.

With a low grunt, he withdrew. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cold void where there had been heat and fullness. A weak sound of protest escaped my lips.

A dark chuckle was his only reply. His hands, large and inescapable, gripped my hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He didn’t let me collapse. Instead, he lifted me.

It was effortless. The sheer physical disparity between us had never felt so profound. I was pliant in his grasp, my limbs still liquid from release, offering no resistance as he pulled me back from the bed. My feet barely brushed the carpeted floor before he was turning me, guiding me the few steps to the polished mahogany study desk that was bolted to the cabin wall.

The cool, hard surface bit into my palms as he positioned me before it. “Hands here,” he instructed, his voice a rough scrape against the shell of my ear. I obeyed, splaying my fingers on the dark wood. He nudged my legs wider apart with his knee, the stance making me feel exposed, vulnerable.

I was facing a large, ornate mirror framed in the same dark wood, mounted on the cabin wall. Our reflection stared back—a stark, undeniable portrait of us.

Him. A man in his prime, broad-shouldered and solid, all coiled power and intent.. His face was all hard angles and stark lines, experience and authority etched into every feature. His hair, faintly silvered at the temples, was mussed from my hands. His eyes in the glass were dark, hungry, utterly focused.

And me. I looked… small. Swallowed by him. My bare back was a pale, slender curve against the expanse of his chest. The reflection made my youth glaringly obvious—the smooth, unmarked skin, the slightness of my frame, the way my wrists looked almost delicate where they met the desk. My face was flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dazed with spent pleasure and new anticipation. I looked like what I was: a girl being meticulously undone by a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

He saw me looking. One hand came up, not to touch me, but to frame my face in the mirror, his thumb stroking my cheek. His other arm banded around my waist, pulling me back firmly until I was flush against him. I could feel him, hard and insistent against the curve of my backside.

“Look,” he commanded, his gaze locking onto mine in the glass. “Look at yourself. Look at who you belong to.”

The words were a brand. My breath fogged a small circle on the cool mirror. I was trapped between the hard reality of the desk and the harder reality of him, forced to witness my own surrender.

He didn’t enter me right away. He teased. The head of his length pressed against my slick, sensitive flesh, nudging, circling, promising fulfillment but withholding it. A frustrated whimper built in my throat. My hips pushed back instinctively, seeking the fullness he’d just taken away.

He tutted softly, his arm tightening around my middle, holding me still. “Easy baby,” he murmured, his lips against my ear. “More's coming,"

He rocked against me, the friction maddening and incomplete. Every shift of his hips, every brush of his body against my bare skin, was a reminder of the power dynamic that was as much a part of our intimacy as the pleasure itself. He had decades of experience on me, of control, and he wielded it without mercy.

“Please, Paul,” I breathed, the plea directed at our reflection. My eyes were glassy, my lower lip caught between my teeth.

“Please, what, baby?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. He finally, slowly, began to push inside.

The stretch was exquisite, made more intense by the wait and the visual of it in the mirror. I watched, mesmerized, as my body opened for him, as he filled the space he owned. A low moan vibrated through me. His eyes never left mine in the glass.

He started to move, and the pace was different now. It wasn’t the frantic, driving rhythm of before. It was deep, measured, and devastatingly thorough. Each withdrawal was slow, deliberate, making me feel every inch of his absence. Each thrust was a reclaiming, a solid, grounding push that stole my breath and rocked me forward against the desk. His grip on my waist was firm, anchoring me, controlling the depth and the angle.

“See how perfect you are for me?” he growled, his breath hot on my neck. His eyes burned into my reflected ones. “See how you take me? All of me.”

I could only nod, my knuckles white where I gripped the desk’s edge. The visual was undeniable. The sheer physical contrast was obscene, beautiful, and profoundly arousing. My slightness emphasized his strength. My youthful pliancy highlighted his mature command. He was a fortress, and I was the flag fluttering against it, completely at his mercy.

He bent over me, his chest pressing against my back, and the new angle was even deeper. A cry was torn from my throat. One of his hands left my waist and slid around my hip, his fingers finding the slick, throbbing center of me. He pressed the pad of his thumb down in a firm, circular rhythm that matched the deep, rolling thrusts of his hips.

The triple assault; the unflinching visual, the deep, penetrating fullness, the skilled pressure of his hand,was too much. Pleasure, which had been coiling slowly and deeply, suddenly gathered into a tight, screaming knot.

My eyes, locked on his in the mirror, widened. The breath hitched in my chest. The world beyond the glass, beyond the circle of his arms, ceased to exist.

“That’s it,” he urged, his voice guttural, his own control fraying. His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace. “Look at yourself come for me. Let me see it.”

The command broke me.

The third orgasm didn’t crash or quake. It erupted. It was a silent, shattering convulsion that locked my spine and stole the air from my lungs. My mouth opened in a soundless scream, my eyes squeezing shut for a second before flying open again, hazy and unseeing. In the mirror, I watched my own face transform with raw, unfiltered ecstasy. I watched my body tense and spasm around him, completely mastered by the sensation he was wringing from me.

He followed me over the edge with a raw, choked groan, his own release triggered by the violent clenching of my body around his. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, his large frame shuddering as he drove into me one last, final time, spending himself deep inside.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant, steady drone of the engines. He stayed lodged within me, his weight heavy and warm on my back, his arms still holding me to the desk.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. His hands, now gentle, turned me around. My legs were useless, buckling immediately. He caught me, lifting me as easily as he had before, and carried me the few steps back to the bed. He laid me down and then stretched out beside me, pulling me into the curve of his body. His heartbeat was a strong, steady drum against my back.

He didn’t speak. He just held me, one hand splayed possessively over my stomach. In the quiet, the reality of our situation settled over us again, heavier than any blanket. The wedding in Vegas. My family. Zayne. The secret marriage that felt both like a lifeline and a prison.

But in that moment, in the afterglow of the three shattering releases I had demanded and he had willingly given, none of it seemed to matter. I was his. The proof of it was mapped on my trembling body and reflected in the dark, satisfied stillness of his eyes when I finally found the courage to look up at him. 

He helps me up the bed and cleans me up, planting kisses on my body as I was too spent to speak just as he covers me with the blanket and lays next to me.

"I love you so much, Penelope," He muttered but when I turn to look at him, he's already asleep.