14. Henry

14

Henry

I slid into Freya, and the sensation enveloped me like nothing else. Her warmth, her softness—it felt like I was home. My breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping my throat. Her body arched beneath me, and her nails scraped my back, leaving trails of fire.

Her ankles locked around my lower back, pressing me deeper into her. The intensity of the connection between us made my pulse race. Each movement, each shift in our rhythm, sent shockwaves through me. I tightened my grip on her hips, feeling her skin warm under my touch.

“Henry,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The way she said my name stirred something primal inside me. I leaned in closer, pressing my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. Her eyes fluttered open and met mine, wide and vulnerable.

Every inch of me was alive with sensation—her legs wrapped around me, the feel of her nails digging into my flesh, her rapid heartbeat echoing mine. I wanted to lose myself in her completely, to let go of everything else but this moment.

The tension between us built higher and higher until it felt like we would both shatter from the intensity. Her grip on me tightened as if she could pull me even closer.

And then we were moving together, a frantic dance that neither of us could control. The world outside ceased to exist; there was only Freya and the way she made me feel—whole and raw and entirely alive.

I didn't expect it to feel like this with her. In fact, I was almost angry it did feel like this. Every part of me was consumed by the sensation, and the anger mixed with something deeper, something I couldn't quite name. It was infuriating how much I wanted her, needed her.

I didn't even know why I started this in the first place. Was it to teach her a lesson? To take back some control? My reasons seemed to dissolve in the heat of the moment, in the feel of her body against mine. None of it mattered anymore.

All that mattered was this moment, being inside of her, claiming her. The connection between us felt unbreakable, like a bond forged in fire. I could see the same intensity reflected in her eyes, defiance and desire that mirrored my own turmoil.

Freya's breath came in short gasps, and each one sent a shiver down my spine. Her fingers tightened on my shoulders, grounding me in this reality where nothing existed but us. The world outside faded away until it was just our shared heat and desperate movements.

Deep down, I knew that now that I'd had her; I didn't want anyone else. The thought lodged itself firmly in my mind, refusing to budge. She had become a part of me in ways I hadn't anticipated, and the realization both thrilled and terrified me.

Her body moved beneath mine with an urgency that matched my own. Each thrust brought us closer together, erasing any distance that had once separated us. The rhythm we found was primal and instinctual, driven by a need that neither of us could deny.

Freya's voice broke through the haze, a soft moan that echoed in my ears and sent another jolt of electricity through me. It spurred me on, making me push harder, wanting to elicit more sounds from her lips.

"Henry," she whispered again, and the way she said my name made something inside me snap. It wasn't just about control anymore; it was about claiming what was already mine.

Every muscle in my body tightened as we moved together faster and faster, the world narrowing down to just our shared breaths and heartbeats. The intensity built higher until it felt like we were on the edge of something vast and unstoppable.

"Say it again," I growled, the words rough in my throat. "Say my name."

Freya's eyes met mine, clouded with lust, her lips parted as if the air had been knocked out of her.

"Who's fucking you?" I demanded, my voice a low rumble.

She remained silent, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

I thrust harder, the force of it causing her head to bump against the wall. "Who's fucking you?" I asked again, my tone unyielding.

"You are," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

A smile curved on my lips. "And who am I?"

"Henry," she said, the name slipping from her mouth like a confession.

I drove into her harder, deeper, and she gasped, the sound reverberating between us. "I know you want to come all over my cock," I said, my breath hot against her ear. "I'll pull out if you don't answer the question."

She glared at me then, pure loathing in her eyes. Good. Now she knew what it felt like.

"Who am I to you?" I asked, pressing her for more.

"My husband," she whispered.

The word sent a jolt through me, lighting up every nerve in my body. A groan escaped me as I absorbed the truth of it.

"That's right, baby," I murmured against her skin. "Your husband is fucking you. You going to be a good wife and come all over his cock the same way you did with his fingers?"

Freya whimpered beneath me, her eyes locked on mine, and I felt the last shreds of my control slipping away. The rhythm between us quickened, our bodies moving in perfect tandem. Each thrust drew me closer to the edge, a place where reason and restraint no longer existed.

"You want to come, you better do it now," I whispered against her ear, my voice strained. "I'm going to come inside of you whether you do or not."

A primal moan tore from her throat, raw and unfiltered. That sound—pure and desperate—was my undoing. My grip tightened on her hips as I drove into her one last time, losing myself completely in the sensation.

Her body convulsed around me just as I reached my peak, shuddering in perfect sync with my own release. The world around us disappeared, leaving only the shared intensity of our climax. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up at once, an overwhelming wave of pleasure that stole my breath.

We stayed like that for a moment, tangled together, our breaths mingling as we came down from the high. It felt like an eternity and a split second all at once.

The realization of what I had done hit me like a sledgehammer. Slowly, I lowered Freya down, feeling the weight of my actions settle in my chest. Her legs gave out, and she slid to the floor, her body trembling.

I pulled out and saw my come dribble from her, coating her inner thighs. The sight stirred something dark and primal within me, but I fought it back with every ounce of willpower I had left.

"Don't come here again," I managed to say, my voice harsher than I intended. It was the only way to protect myself from the pull she had on me.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and filled with emotions I couldn't untangle. But I couldn't afford to care about that right now. I yanked up my sweatpants, securing the barrier between us.

I needed to get away from her before I did something else just as reckless, just as stupid. Turning on my heel, I left her there in the office, a mess of conflicting feelings swirling in my gut.

I stormed down the narrow staircase to the basement, my mind a turbulent mess. The air grew cooler with each step, the dim light casting shadows that seemed to mock me. I shoved open the door to the gym, a sanctuary of steel and sweat. The scent of rubber mats and iron weights hit me immediately, a welcome reprieve from the intoxicating aroma of Freya that still clung to my skin.

The gym was a Spartan affair—bare walls, minimal equipment. A single bench press, a set of free weights, and in the center of it all, a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling by thick chains. It swung gently, as if inviting me to release my fury.

I crossed the room in quick strides, my hands already wrapping with tape from a box on the floor. Each turn around my knuckles was like adding another layer of armor against the thoughts threatening to break through. Freya's eyes haunted me—those pale green depths filled with conflicting emotions as she whispered my name.

With a growl, I launched my fist into the bag. The impact reverberated up my arm, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more—needed to obliterate every trace of her from my mind.

Left hook. Right jab. Another left hook. My fists moved on their own accord, each punch accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. The bag swung violently, its chain rattling like an anchor straining against a storm.

But no matter how hard I hit, I couldn’t shake her scent—wildflowers and something uniquely her. It wrapped around me like a vise, tightening with every breath I took.

And her essence?

Fuck, I could bury myself in her pussy and live there.

Damn it.

I slammed both fists into the bag with enough force to send it swinging back wildly. Sweat dripped down my face. I leaned into another punch, harder this time, my knuckles aching from the relentless assault.

"Why?" I muttered under my breath between punches. "Why can’t I get you out of my head?"

Each strike was an attempt to exorcize her memory—the way her body had responded to mine, how she had whispered my name in that breathless tone that made me lose control.

I kept punching until my muscles screamed for mercy and the sweat poured off me in rivulets. But no amount of physical exertion could erase what had happened or the way she made me feel.

The audacity of her, to go to my grandfather's office. My fists pounded against the punching bag, each strike a release of the rage boiling inside me. She shouldn't be there. How dare she be there? The intensity of my punches increased, the bag swaying wildly from the force.

Fuck, she felt so good when she climaxed. The memory surged unbidden, a cruel reminder. The way she gushed all over me, the sounds she made—those desperate, breathless moans. Her body spasmed in my arms, every muscle taut and trembling. I’d never experienced anything like it.

My fists blurred into motion, each punch harder than the last. I wanted to erase her from my mind, but the sensations lingered. I wanted her again. I wanted to take her again.

But that was never going to happen.

My knuckles screamed in protest as they met the unyielding surface of the bag. The sweat poured off me in waves, drenching my shirt and matting my hair to my forehead. Each punch echoed with frustration and longing.

I could still feel her—every curve, every shudder of pleasure as she writhed beneath me. Her scent clung to my skin, refusing to be washed away by sweat and exertion.

She was in my blood now, an addiction I couldn't shake.

And yet, it was impossible.

I stopped, breathless, cock straining in my pants. My fists hung at my sides, knuckles raw and throbbing. The gym was silent except for the dull echo of my own breathing. Every fiber of my being seethed with hatred. I hated her. I hated Freya with a fury that threatened to consume me whole.

But it wasn't just hatred. It was something deeper, more insidious. Something that gnawed at the edges of my sanity.

I needed to cool off. I turned and headed for the small bathroom attached to the gym, each step a struggle against the relentless ache in my chest—and lower.

Inside, the stark fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh reflections off the tiled walls. I twisted the knob of the shower, letting icy water cascade from the showerhead. The chill was bracing, a shock to my overheated system.

I stripped quickly, tossing my sweat-soaked clothes into a corner. Stepping under the frigid stream, I let out a hiss as the cold water hit my skin, sending shivers racing down my spine. It felt like needles piercing every pore, but it was exactly what I needed.

The water pounded against me, but it did little to wash away her presence. Her scent still clung to me like a ghostly reminder of our time together. Her taste lingered on my tongue, her touch imprinted on my flesh.

I leaned against the cold tiles, letting the water sluice over me in an attempt to drown out the memories. My fingers dug into the grout lines as if seeking some kind of anchor in this storm of emotions.

But she lingered.

No matter what I did, she lingered.

The way her body had fit against mine so perfectly haunted me. The feel of her soft skin under my hands refused to fade from memory. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face—those conflicted green eyes staring up at me.

"Get out of my head," I muttered through clenched teeth, slamming a fist against the tiles. The sharp pain radiated up my arm but did nothing to dull the ache inside me.

The cold water continued its relentless assault on my body, but it couldn't reach where I needed it most. It couldn't freeze away the fire she had ignited within me or erase the mark she had left on my soul.

And so, even as I stood there under the freezing torrent, trying to scrub away every trace of her from my skin and mind...

Freya lingered still.

I stepped out of the shower, the icy water still clinging to my skin in droplets that trailed down my chest. The chill lingered, doing little to quell the turmoil within me. Grabbing a towel, I rubbed it vigorously over my hair, trying to shake off the lingering memories along with the moisture.

I caught my reflection in the fogged-up mirror and wiped a clear streak with my hand. What the hell happened to me? The face staring back looked haunted, shadows under eyes that once held confidence. The reflection mocked me, reminding me of how far I'd fallen. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t who I was supposed to be.

Get it together, Henry.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and moved to the linen closet outside the bathroom. Pulling open the door, I grabbed a pair of sweats and a simple white shirt. The soft cotton felt grounding as I slipped into them, a small comfort in a world suddenly turned upside down.

I headed up the stairs; the house seemed too quiet, as if holding its breath alongside me. Reaching the top, I turned towards the kitchen where Carmen would be preparing dinner.

The moment I entered, rich aromas hit me—garlic sizzling in olive oil, fresh basil mingling with tomatoes’ tangy sweetness. Carmen worked her magic at the stove, her back to me as she stirred a pot of something that promised warmth and solace.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she called over her shoulder without turning around.

The smells enveloped me like a comforting embrace. They were familiar and steady in contrast to the chaos within me. For a moment, I stood there letting those scents anchor me back to reality.

“Thanks, Carmen,” I managed to say, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears.

She glanced back at me then, eyes sharp but kind. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

I gave a weak smile. “You have no idea.”

Her brow furrowed slightly before she returned her attention to dinner. The sounds of sizzling and chopping filled the air, mingling with the mouth-watering aromas.

I settled onto one of the high stools at the kitchen island, watching Carmen’s deft hands as she chopped fresh herbs. The rhythmic sound of her knife against the cutting board was almost hypnotic, a welcome distraction from the storm brewing inside me.

“Carmen,” I began, trying to keep my voice steady, “where is my wife?”

She paused mid-chop and looked over her shoulder at me. “I believe she’s in her room, Mr. Mathers.”

I nodded, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “When you get a chance, please inform her she’ll be having dinner with me.”

Carmen’s eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite read—sympathy? Concern?—before she returned to her task. “Of course,” she replied, her tone professional and composed.

As I sat there, the weight of what lay ahead settled heavily on my shoulders. Freya and I had been through hell in such a short time. The Imprinting ceremony had changed everything, binding us in ways neither of us fully understood or wanted.

I didn’t want to be around her, not with everything so raw and unresolved between us. But this was about more than just what I wanted. It was about control, about making sure she understood that despite our tumultuous start, there were expectations—rules she needed to follow.

The kitchen filled with the rich scent of roasted vegetables and seared meat as Carmen continued preparing dinner. The smells were inviting, comforting even, but my appetite was nowhere to be found. My mind kept drifting back to Freya—how she’d looked at me during our last confrontation, the fire in her eyes clashing with vulnerability.

She has to understand.

I drummed my fingers against the marble countertop, trying to shake off the unease gnawing at me. This wasn’t just about dinner; it was about setting the tone for what lay ahead. She needed to see that despite everything that had happened between us, there were lines that couldn’t be crossed.

Carmen finished her preparations and wiped her hands on a dish towel before turning back to face me. “Dinner will be ready shortly,” she said.

I nodded again, appreciating her efficiency and discretion. "Thank you."

She gave a small nod in return before heading towards the stairs to deliver my message. As I watched her go, I steeled myself for what was coming next.

Freya would join me for dinner tonight whether she wanted to or not.

And we would face whatever came next together.