“I was always yours.”
I lose it.
I slam into her harder, rougher, hungrier, like it’s not just her body I want, but her soul. Like I’m trying to bury myself inside her, claim her from the inside out, until there’s no space left that doesn’t have my name carved into it.
The sound of us is savage, wet, filthy, desperate. Skin slapping. Breaths breaking. Curses whispered between clenched teeth.
I slide a hand into her hair, tilting her head back, forcing her to see me, to feel me, to know this isn’t just sex.
It’s a fucking undoing.
A surrender.
I watch her fall apart, feel her tighten around me, her body clenching, trembling, wrecked. It slams into me, a violent, blinding, full-body release that knocks the breath from my lungs, rips a guttural, raw, fucking primal sound from my throat.
I bury myself deep, my entire body locking up, shaking, burning as I spill into her, wave after wave of pure, uncontrollable pleasure tearing through me.
It’s not just an orgasm.
It’s an exorcism.
Like fifteen years of want, of need, of frustration finally breaking free, ripping me apart, leaving me ruined inside her.
I sag against her, my forehead pressing into her shoulder, my chest heaving, my hands still gripping her like I can’t let go.
Because I can’t.
Because I never fucking could.
19
Ben
Some things don’t need fire to burn. They just need a little oxygen. I stand across the road from his office, arms folded, watching the man through the glass. Derrick Crayton, slumped in his fake leather chair like he still owns the world, barking down the phone like he’s untouchable. Like he didn’t throw a grieving boy and his alcoholic father out of their home fifteen years ago. No warning. No grace period. Just a notice letter and a shrug.
“Business is business,” he said.
I’ve never forgotten. Back then, I had no voice. No power. Just a mother buried too soon and a father slowly drowning in grief and whisky.
Now?
Now I have power in spades.
I didn’t need to make a scene. Didn’t need to put my name on anything. Just a few discreet phone calls. A few well-placed whispers. A tip-off to the right authorities. Fire safety violations. Substandard electrical work. Illegal evictions. Unregistered tenancy deposits. Undeclared income. Taxirregularities. Turns out, when you’ve spent years cutting corners and screwing over your tenants, all it takes is one person to pull the right thread and the whole fucking operation starts to unravel.
The tenants aren’t going anywhere. They’re protected now. Most of them don’t even know why the council and the housing standards team have suddenly taken such a keen interest in their building. Why inspectors keep turning up with clipboards and stern expressions. Why enforcement letters keep landing on Crayton’s desk faster than he can rip them open.
I’m not dismantling his business. I’m just exposing it.
The truth?
The truth will do far more damage than I ever could with a cheque.
Fines. Investigations. Frozen assets. Lawsuits.
Soon enough, his name will be poison in this town.
I could’ve bought him out. Could’ve walked in there, signed a cheque, and watched him squirm. But that would’ve been too easy. No, this way is better.
