Chapter 50 Chapter Twenty Four of Grade Me Harder
I didn’t know which number it was.
I stopped counting after the fourth time he made me cum. He took me again and again until my body gave out, until pleasure bled into pain, and pain blurred into something deeper. Something darker.
Something only he could give me.
By the end, I could barely move. Could barely speak.
I felt his weight shift, the mattress dip as he finally stilled—buried deep inside me, one final possessive thrust holding him there. I whimpered when he pulled out, my body too sensitive to even breathe right.
I lay still, my body sore in places I hadn’t even known could ache. My skin was warm with sweat, my legs too weak to move, my mind heavy but clear. The room smelled like sex. The sheets beneath me were damp, tangled.
I felt him shift behind me. His arm slid from under my ribs, and for a moment I thought he was getting up. But then he lowered himself instead. Carefully. Slowly.
He pressed his forehead to my chest, right above my heart, and let out a quiet breath. His hand rested at my hip. Not gripping.
“Sorry,” Wolfe said, his voice rough, nearly hoarse. “I lost control again.”
I didn’t answer immediately. My fingers moved to his hair, slowly, slipping through the sweat-damp strands.
“I should’ve been gentle,” he said. The words sounded heavier than usual. Less like guilt. More like shame.
My throat was dry, but my voice came out steady, “You don’t have to be sorry. I asked for it, remember?”
He didn’t move.
“I told you to go rough,” I added. “I told you not to hold back.”
Wolfe stayed there, forehead pressed against my chest, his breath hitting my skin in quiet intervals. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes met mine.
Without saying a word, he sat up and slid his arms under me. One around my back, one beneath my knees. He lifted me from the bed with ease, holding me close as he walked us to the bathroom.
The lights were still dim. He set me down gently on the closed toilet lid and stood behind me for a moment, letting me lean against him while he reached for a towel and ran the water.
I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
After soaking a cloth in warm water and wringing it out, he stepped around and crouched in front of me. His touch was gentle as he wiped between my thighs, clearing away everything he had left on me. My body flinched once from sensitivity, but I didn’t pull away. He was careful. Thorough. Focused only on me.
When he finished, he dried me with the same quiet care, then reached for a pair of clean panties and slid them up my legs. He helped me into a fresh shirt, one of his, and adjusted it around me without speaking.
Then he carried me back to the bed.
He laid me down first, then moved in beside me, pulling the blanket over both of us. His arm settled around my waist, his body curved behind mine, warm and solid.
I rested my hand on top of his.
Through every moment, my engagement ring remained on my finger—never once removed—because I was his, just as he was undeniably mine.
4 MONTHS LATER ~
Wolfe had just started a new job as a private investigator. He told me he studied Criminology in uni, like it was this old part of him he’d almost forgotten about until now
Our wedding was coming up in December—three months away—and even though the job was already demanding, he doubled his hours just to make sure we could afford everything. The dress. The venue. The rings. All of it. He wanted our day to be perfect.
And God… just thinking about that now makes my chest ache.
He gave so much. Too much, honestly. The job drained him. He was always tired, always stressed, barely eating, barely sleeping. He’d walk through the door and collapse onto the couch with his tie half-undone and that quiet kind of exhaustion that scared me. But he never complained—not once. Because it was for us. For me.
That afternoon, it was just a normal day. I was outside watering the little garden we’d started together beside the house. It wasn’t much—some flowers, a few herbs but it mattered to me. The sun was hot. I remember that. Everything felt still, until it didn’t.
It hit out of nowhere.
A wave of dizziness, like the ground just shifted beneath me. One second I was standing, and the next… everything was spinning. My hand shot out to grab the wall, but I missed. My knees buckled, and I hit the ground.
Hard.
I couldn’t even speak. My mouth was dry, my chest tight. I blinked, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. My head was pounding, and I felt sick—like something was deeply, deeply wrong.
I reached for my phone, which had fallen not too far away, with shaky hands, dragging myself across the porch. Dialed Wolfe. I don’t even remember if I said anything. I might’ve just breathed into the phone. Whatever I did, it was enough.
He was there in a few minutes.
I heard the tires before I saw him—the sharp screech of panic. The door slammed. Footsteps pounded the floor.
And then he was there. Dropping to his knees beside me, out of breath, his hands hovering like he was scared to touch me in case I broke.
“Honey—” His voice cracked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
His eyes were frantic, moving over me like he was trying to figure out if I was bleeding, if I’d hit my head, if I was dying. And the wildest part? His company was far—like far far. Forty-five minutes away at least. For him to be here already…
He must’ve broken every speed limit on the map.
I looked up at him, my whole body still trembling, and that’s when the tears came. Not from pain. From how fast he came. From how scared he looked.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I just… got dizzy.”
He pulled me into his arms, held me like he was afraid I’d slip away again. And I just let myself melt into him.
Wolfe didn’t let go of me the entire time. One arm around my back, the other under my knees as he lifted me like I weighed nothing, carried me straight to the car, and laid me down gently in the passenger seat.
“Talk to me,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm but failing miserably. “Are you feeling pain anywhere else? Chest? Legs? What does it feel like?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered, pressing my hand against my head. “My back hurts. And… I don't know, it’s like these cramps, but worse. They keep coming and going. And I feel like I’m gonna throw up or something.”
That was all it took.
He slammed the door shut, ran around to the driver’s side, and took off. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping mine, even at red lights—which he barely stopped for. He didn’t say much. Just whispered, “I’m here,” over and over. Like if he said it enough, whatever was wrong would fix itself.
When we pulled up at the hospital, he didn’t wait. He parked badly, left the door open, scooped me up again, and shouted for help the second we crossed the sliding glass doors.