Chapter 396 | I’m His

Chapter 396: 396 | I’m His

The voice went all the way through her. Down her spine, into her hips, out through the soles of her feet.

She came so hard she stopped making noise at all. It locked her jaw. Her whole body pulled tight around him and held, and there was a white flat second where nothing existed, and then it broke and she sobbed once, loud and ugly, and she felt herself clench in waves she could not control while he kept moving through it.

"Ah, ah, too much, that’s too—"

He did not stop.

She said something in Japanese that she would not be translating for anyone.

When she came down she was folded against his chest with her face in his throat and tears running sideways into his collarbone, and her legs would not close and her hands would not unclench from the back of his neck, and she was aware, distantly, that he was still hard inside her and had not finished.

She had a thought. It was a good thought. She was proud of it.

"You didn’t," she said.

"No."

She lifted her head. Her vision took a second to arrive. "Then finish in me. I want—" Her voice cracked. She let it. "I want to feel it. Chloe-chan gets to feel it and I want to know what it’s like when it’s for me."

Chloe made a sound from the bed.

Jordan’s hands went tight on her hips, and Kumiko realized she had said the exact correct thing entirely by accident, which never happened, which she was absolutely writing down.

He rolled her.

She landed on her back on the duvet with her skirt shoved up around her waist and her hair everywhere and Jordan over her, and he pushed her knee up toward her chest, and she looked down and saw the shape of him pressing against the skin below her navel and she lost the ability to process language.

"That’s," she said. "That’s inside my. That’s my. Chloe-chan, look—"

"I’ve seen it."

"But it’s outside—"

Jordan drove into her and the observation ended.

It was not gentle. It had stopped being gentle somewhere around her first orgasm and she was glad, she was so glad, she had spent seven relationships being handled like something that might break and she was tired of being a fragile thing. The headboard hit the wall. She let it. Miss Valentine was four hundred miles away, or however far Newport was, geography had left the building.

Chloe’s hand landed on Kumiko’s stomach, flat and warm, right over the place where the shape moved.

Kumiko screamed.

"Feel that," Chloe said, very quietly, right next to her ear. "That’s him. He’s going to fill you up and then he’s going to hold you, and tomorrow he’s going to make you eggs, because that’s what he does."

"Chloe-chan—"

"Say it."

"I’m his," Kumiko said, and the word came out shredded. "I’m his, I’m his, I don’t want to be anything else, I’ve never wanted to be anything—"

Jordan buried himself and stopped.

She felt the first pulse. Then the second. It was so much more than she had budgeted for, this flooding heat that kept coming, filling her past the point where she could hold it, and she felt it start to leak out around him and she made a sound like she was being cracked open.

It did not stop. Twelve seconds. She counted, because counting was what she had left. Twelve seconds of him emptying into her and her body trying to keep up with it, and Chloe’s hand pressing down on her belly the whole time.

When it finally slowed she was crying properly, no dignity, her hands over her face.

"There she goes," Chloe said.

"I’m not," Kumiko said. "This is a vaulted ceiling reaction. It’s architectural."

"You’re in a room with an eight foot ceiling."

"It’s the proportions."

Jordan pulled out and she felt it come with him, warm and steady down her thigh, and she pressed her knees together on reflex and it did nothing.

"Oh no," she said.

"Yeah."

"There’s so much of it. Jordan-kun. There’s a concerning amount. Is that normal. Is that a normal amount for a person to make. I’m asking clinically."

Chloe was already up and moving toward the bathroom. "The answer is no and we’ve stopped asking."

Kumiko lay on her back and looked at the ceiling that was not vaulted and took inventory.

Her hair was ruined. Both ribbons gone, one confirmed lost, the other missing in action. Her skirt was a belt now. Her thighs were sticky and shaking and she could not close them, and there was a fresh mark on her collarbone over yesterday’s mark, and her voice felt scraped out from the inside.

Sixteen hours ago she had been standing in an esplanade with a color-coded spreadsheet, terrified that she would somehow ruin it. She had ruined nothing. She had ruined a mattress, arguably.

She started laughing.

"What," Jordan said. He had collapsed sideways next to her with one arm over his eyes.

"Page nineteen," she said. "It said hotel intimacy, optional. Optional. I wrote optional because I didn’t want to assume, I sat there at four in the morning and typed the word optional so that if it didn’t happen I could pretend I hadn’t wanted it." She wiped her face with the back of her wrist and got mascara on it. "That’s so sad. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever done and I once cried at a Costco."

"Why were you at a Costco."

"Rotisserie chicken. Don’t change the subject."

Chloe came back with a warm washcloth and dropped it on Kumiko’s stomach without ceremony, then sat on the edge of the bed and started unwinding the disaster of Kumiko’s hair with both hands, working from the ends up, the way you do when you have done it for somebody a hundred times.

"Nineteen," Chloe said. "Not optional. Delete it."

"It’s already in version eight."

"Then build version nine."

Kumiko turned her face into Chloe’s hip and stayed there. The washcloth was too warm and she did not care. Somebody’s fingers were in her hair and somebody else’s hand had found her ankle and was holding it for no reason at all, and she thought about seven boys and a bus station at one in the morning and a text that said you’re a lot.

She was a lot.