Touching the Scar #2
His eyes close, his head tipping forward until his forehead rests against my chest.
A shudder rolls through him.
Not muscle.
Reaction.
His head turns, just enough. Stubble grazes my knuckles, rough and electric.
It’s like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
My heart slams hard enough to rattle my ribs.
His hand comes up.
Not gentle. He catches my wrist with an iron grip. His fingers close around my forearm, his thumb pressing into the soft skin over my pulse. The erratic beat races against his skin. He counts the beats. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
One sharp tug.
I stumble forward.
Momentum carries me straight into the V of his legs. My palms land on his chest, sliding over slick skin and unyielding muscle, and his heart gallops beneath them.
Just as fast as mine.
His eyes lift.
The amber vanishes. Swallowed whole by black. What looks back at me is raw, starving, and stripped of polite restraint. The wolf, looking at the rabbit.
A groan tears from him: low, wrecked.
He releases my wrist. His hands settle on my hips. Calloused thumbs dig into my bone, anchoring me in place.
Heat pours off him, burning through the thin cotton between us. The hard ridge of his arousal presses against my thigh, unrelenting.
My knees threaten to give.
Desire pools low, heavy, and molten, dragging me under. Everything to do with the man holding me. Everything to do with the fact that for the first time in my life, I’m not in control, and I don’t want to be.
My gaze drops to his mouth. So close. A hard line I ache to soften.
“This is a bad idea. A catastrophic one.” His tone is low, deep, powerful, and sexy as sin.
“Yes.” I breathe the word onto his lips.
“You should tell me to stop.”
He shudders. His grip tightens, bruising in its intensity, every muscle screaming restraint. Training. Duty. The instinct telling him I’m a line he cannot cross. The promise he made to Hutchinson. The promise he made to himself.
“Boyd. Please don’t stop.”
It isn’t the touch. I understand that now, watching the war crack open across his face.
He held against my hands on his skin, against my mouth, against every reckless thing I hurled at him for three days.
What he can’t hold against is the surrender.
That one word, please, handed over like a gift instead of sprung like a trap.
I give him the only thing this man has never learned to refuse. Control.
The restraint snaps.
A physical vibration shatters his control. The wall comes down.
“Fuck it.”
He surges up.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
A full-scale raid.
His lips burn hot, wet, tasting of coffee and salt. He devours me. No asking, no testing. He takes my mouth like he claims territory, his tongue sweeping inside, rough and demanding.
I open to him and surrender.
His hands slide up my back, under my shirt. His palms scrape rough against my skin, calloused and hot. He traces my spine, not with reverence, but with ownership.
He breaks the kiss, his breath blowing harshly on my cheek.
“You sure you want this?” His voice drops to a growl, vibrating through my skin.
“Yes.”
He grips my waist and spins me.
The world tilts.
My back hits the rug. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He climbs over me instantly, a heavy, solid weight blocking out the light. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, effortlessly restraining me.
He settles between my legs, his heavy thighs forcing mine apart.
He looms over me. Massive from this angle, a wall of muscle, scars, and intent.
“I warned you.” He stares down at me, his gaze tracking the flush spreading down my neck. “I told you I wasn’t safe. I told you I wasn’t gentle.”
“I don’t want gentle.”
The admission hangs in the air, naked and true.
He smiles. A terrifying, predatory thing.
“Good. Because I’m fresh out of gentle.” He releases my wrists only to grip the hem of my shirt. “Up.”
I lift my arms. He strips the shirt off in one motion, tossing it aside. He looks at me. He takes in the lace bra, the shallow work of my lungs, the pulse beating frantically in my throat.
“Beautiful.” He runs a hand down my stomach, his palm rasping against my skin. He traces the line of my ribs, possessing them. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“No, you’re not.”
He leans down. He bites the sensitive cord of my neck, hard enough to leave a mark.
I gasp, arching into him.
“You’re shaking because you know what’s coming.”
He works the button of my jeans. The zipper hisses. He yanks the denim down, his hands efficient, impatient. I kick off the pants.
I’m naked before him. Exposed. Vulnerable.
He doesn’t look away. He feasts. He takes in every inch of me, his gaze heavy and tactile. It feels like he touches me everywhere at once.
He sits back on his heels. He shoves his sweatpants down, freeing himself.
I stare at him. At the thick, turgid length of him springing free. He is magnificent. Terrifying. The veins stand out in relief against the skin.
“Look at it.” The command lands low, absolute. “Look at what you did to me.”
I can’t look away.
“Touch it.”
I reach out. My hand closes around him. He burns hot, hard as steel, pulsing with life.
He groans, his hips snapping forward into my touch.
“Tighter.” He covers my hand with his, forcing a rougher rhythm. “Harder. Don’t be gentle.”
I stroke him, marveling at the power contained in his body. He is a weapon, but right now, he’s aimed securely at me.
He pulls my hand away.
“Enough.”
He moves over me. He braces his weight on his hands, positioning himself at my entrance. The head of him presses against me, broad and demanding.
I arch up, seeking him. Needing him to fill the empty ache inside me.
He pulls back.
“No.” He holds my hips down, pinning me to the floor. “You don’t move. You take it.”
He pushes in.
Slowly. Agonizingly slowly.
He stretches me. He invades me. He fills me inch by inch, forcing me to feel every millimeter of his girth.
I gasp, throwing my head back, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Boyd.”
“Look at me.”
I open my eyes. His face hovers inches from mine, dark and intense, sweat dripping from his brow onto my chest.
“I want to see your eyes when I take you.”
He sinks all the way to the hilt.
We both freeze.
The sensation is overwhelming. He fills every empty space inside me. We are fused. Connected.
He holds perfectly still, letting me adjust, letting me feel the weight of him claiming me. His hips sink heavily against mine.
“Right now, in this room, you belong to me.” His voice vibrates against my breastbone, a low rumble in his chest. “No holding back. Just this.”
“Yes.”
He withdraws, almost all the way out, then slams back in.
The rhythm begins. Hard. Fast. Relentless.
A brutal claiming. He drives into me with a force, knocking the breath out of me, his hips slapping against mine with a wet, heavy sound.
I try to meet his thrusts. Instinct takes over. I want to find my own rhythm, taking control of the sensation, climbing the peak on my own terms. I lift my hips, trying to match his violence.
He clamps his hands down on my waist.
He grinds against me, using his superior weight to pin my hips to the rug, arresting my movement mid-arch. He stops me cold.
“Don’t move.”
The command growls low, vibrating directly into my chest.
He withdraws slowly, prolonging the friction, then drives back in with a punishing depth that curls my toes. But he doesn’t let me rise to meet it. He forces me to lie flat, to be the vessel, enduring the pleasure rather than partaking in it.
“You don’t set the pace. I do.”
He drives deeper, hitting a spot blurring my vision. He sets the pace: punishing, deep, authoritative. He takes away my agency, leaving me with only sensation.