Chapter Eight – The First Ruin
(Part 2 – The Fall)
Henry rolled the condom over himself with shaking hands. Not from nerves. From restraint. From the maddening pressure of wanting her—not just the shape of her, but the chaos inside her eyes. The part she never gave to anyone.
Hazel reached for him, pulled him down, and they met again—mouth to mouth, breath to breath. His body hovered over hers like a question.
"Tell me to stop," he said, voice cracked and human.
"Don't you dare."
And he sank into her.
She cried out, not from pain—but from how deep it was. How slow. How full. Like something ancient slipping into place.
He held still for a second, eyes locked on hers, as if memorizing the way her lips parted and her brows drew tight from the stretch. Then, with a low groan, he began to move.
Slow. Deep. Grinding.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in tighter, forcing every inch of him to stay. He filled her like she'd never been filled—like he was making room in her body for something holy and violent all at once.
"God," she whispered into his neck, "what are you doing to me?"
He kissed her shoulder, lips trembling. "Ruining you."
Her nails scratched down his back, and he groaned into her skin.
She flipped him suddenly—rolling them so she was on top.
His eyes widened, mouth open, completely undone. Hazel sat on him, took him in fully again, and began to ride him—slowly, purposefully, watching his face the entire time.
"This what you thought about?" she asked, breathless.
He nodded, dazed. "So many nights."
She leaned down, brushed her lips over his. "Then let me give it to you."
Her hips moved like sin, like grace, like she was born to break men apart and build them back different. Henry's hands gripped her thighs, holding on like he was falling.
And maybe he was.
She kissed his neck, his chest, her hands all over him like she was memorizing the map of a war-scarred country she intended to invade.
When he flipped her back again, taking control, she gasped—his thrusts deeper now, harder.
He kissed her through it. With meaning. With fire.
And when she came again, she bit his shoulder, moaning his name like a curse and a promise.
They didn't stop.
Not after the first.
Or the second.
Or the third.
He took her from behind—her back arched, hands on the headboard, hair tangled in his fingers.
She begged for more, and he gave it.
Not just the act—but the want.
The worship.
The grit and heat and reverence she never knew she was starving for.
By the time they collapsed, tangled and slick, hours had passed.
Hazel lay on his chest, their skin damp, her fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.
No words. Just breath.
And heartbeat.
And guilt she didn't feel.
Not yet.
"Samuel doesn't touch me like that," she whispered finally.
Henry's jaw clenched. He didn't reply.
"I don't think anyone ever has."
He turned his head, looked at her like a man seeing a comet for the first and last time. "Because they didn't deserve to."
Hazel closed her eyes.
And for the first time in her life, she didn't care if she was the villain.