Chapter Sixteen #2
I don't know what I'm trying to say. Don't know if there are words for what he's doing to me, for the way his tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles that make my vision blur at the edges.
He finds the bundle of nerves at my apex and focuses there, alternating between featherlight flicks and steady pressure that has me writhing beneath him.
“Like that. But harder, faster,” I murmur.
And he listens.
His groan vibrates against my most sensitive flesh, and the sound he makes — like I'm the sweetest thing he's ever tasted — sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through me.
One of his hands leaves my hip, and then his fingers are there too, sliding through slick heat, pressing inside me with a gentleness that makes my heart crack open.
"You taste incredible," he murmurs against me, the words barely audible but burning into my skin nonetheless.
The combination of his mouth and his fingers working in tandem is too much. Pleasure builds at the base of my spine, gathering like a storm about to break. My thighs clamp around his head, heels digging into his back, and I couldn't let him go now even if I wanted to.
I don't want to. I never want to.
"Breaker," I gasp, and this time his name comes out like a warning. "I'm going to—"
"I know," he says, and the confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty that he knows exactly what he's doing to me, pushes me closer to the edge. "Let go, Sparrow. I've got you."
His tongue flattens against me, pressing firm, and his fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and I let go of everything with a shaking, quaking cry.
The orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, obliterating everything in its path.
My body arches off the bed, muscles clenching, release pouring through me in wave after wave of blinding pleasure.
I cry out — his name, maybe, or just a sound without meaning — and he doesn't stop.
His mouth stays on me, gentle but persistent, drawing out every tremor until I'm boneless and gasping, tears streaming down my temples into my hair.
For a long moment, I just float. Suspended in the aftermath, my body humming with satisfaction, my mind blissfully, blessedly empty of everything except the feeling of being thoroughly, completely undone.
Then awareness seeps back in. The cool air on my sweat-dampened skin; the rough scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh; the sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, matching my own.
All I can do is reach for him.
My hands find his face, cupping his jaw, pulling him up toward me. He comes willingly, crawling over my body, and when his mouth meets mine, I taste myself on his lips — salt and musk and something sweeter underneath.
I lick across his lower lip, chasing the flavor, and he groans into my mouth.
"I love that," I whisper against him, my voice wrecked and honest. "Tasting myself on you."
His whole body shudders. I feel it everywhere we're pressed together — chest to chest, hip to hip, his hardness straining against the rough denim of his jeans and pressing into my thigh like a promise.
The power of it hits me all at once. This man — this dangerous, beautiful, broken man — is trembling because of me. Because of my words. Because of what we're doing together.
Something shifts inside me. The fear that's lived in my bones for so long doesn't disappear, but it recedes, making room for something else. Something that feels like confidence. Like safety. Like finally, finally being in control of my pleasure.
I push against his chest, and he pulls back immediately, concern flickering across his features. But I'm already moving, reversing our positions, urging him onto his back with hands that don't shake anymore.
"Riley?" His voice is rough, questioning.
I straddle his thighs and look down at him — this scarred, tattooed warrior spread out beneath me like an offering.
His chest heaves with each breath, his hands fisting in the sheets the same way mine did moments ago.
The evidence of his arousal strains against his jeans, and the sight of it sends a fresh pulse of heat through my core.
I feel powerful. Desired. Safe enough to want.
My fingers find his belt buckle, and I hold his gaze as I work it open. "Now," I say, my voice steady and sure in a way it hasn't been in years, "lie back and let me take care of you."
His breath hitches as I work the leather free, then the button, then the zipper. Each sound is loud in the quiet room — metal teeth parting, fabric rustling, his ragged exhale as I finally free him from the confines of his jeans.
He's thick and hard and straining toward me, and the sight of him makes my mouth water.
I wrap my fingers around him first, feeling the heat of him pulse against my palm. He groans, hips jerking involuntarily, and the sound emboldens me. I lower my head, letting my breath ghost across the swollen tip, watching his stomach muscles clench in anticipation.
Then my lips close around him.
The taste of him floods my senses — salt and musk and something uniquely him. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and the sound he makes is almost pained. His hand finds my hair, not pushing, just holding, fingers trembling against my scalp.
"Fuck, Riley," he gasps. "Your mouth... God damn..."
I hum around him, pleased by his reaction, and his whole body shudders. I work him slowly at first, learning what makes him groan, what makes his hips buck, what makes his grip tighten in my hair. The power of it is intoxicating — this strong, dangerous man coming apart beneath me, because of me.
But as I feel him throb against my tongue, as I hear his breathing grow more ragged, something shifts inside me. The ache between my thighs has become unbearable, a hollow need that demands to be filled. I'm so wet I can feel it on my inner thighs, slick and wanting.
I need more. I need him inside me.
I release him from my mouth with a wet pop, and he makes a sound of protest that cuts off when he sees me moving. Rising. Positioning myself above him.
"Riley, wait — " His voice is strained, hands finding my hips. "We should…"
"I want this, I want you," I breathe, and it's true, has been since I met him. "And I'm clean. Are you?"
"Yeah." The word comes out rough, desperate.
"Then shut up."
I sink down onto him.
The stretch is exquisite. He's big — bigger than I expected, even after having him in my mouth — and my body resists for a moment before yielding, opening around him inch by devastating inch.
We both moan as I take him fully, my hips finally meeting his, every nerve ending in my body singing with the fullness of him.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, adjusting, feeling. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I don't care. I want his marks on me. Want evidence that this is real.
Then I move.
I roll my hips experimentally at first, finding the rhythm, finding the angle that makes sparks shoot throughout my body.
When I find it — god, when I find it — my head falls back and a moan tears from my throat.
"That's it," Breaker growls beneath me, his voice wrecked. "Take what you need."
So I do.
I ride him with everything I have, every fear and every want and every desperate, aching need I've been suppressing for months.
Years. My thighs burn with the effort, sweat slicking my skin, but I don't stop.
Can't stop. The pleasure builds with every roll of my hips, coiling tighter and tighter at my core.
His hands roam my body — my hips, my waist, my breasts. He palms them roughly, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and the dual sensation of him inside me and his hands on my skin is almost too much to bear. I cry out, the sound raw and unguarded, and I don't even recognize my voice anymore.
"You feel incredible," he groans, hips rising to meet mine, thrust for thrust. "So tight. So fucking perfect."
The words send a fresh wave of heat crashing through me.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, changing the angle so he hits that spot deep inside me with every stroke.
My nails dig into the hard planes of his muscles, leaving crescent moons in their wake, and he hisses through his teeth — not in pain, but in pleasure so sharp it borders on agony.
Our rhythm becomes frantic and desperate. The slap of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by gasps and moans and the creak of the bed beneath us. I can feel another orgasm building, different from the first — deeper, more consuming, threatening to pull me under entirely.
"Riley," he gasps, and there's a warning in his voice now, a tension in every line of his body. His grip on my hips turns bruising. "I'm gonna — fuck, I'm close —"
"Shh."
I press my finger against his lips, silencing him. His eyes go wide, dark with need and surprise and something that looks almost like wonder. I hold his gaze as I ride him harder, faster, chasing my release even as I feel him tense beneath me.
"Come for me," I whisper against his mouth. "I want to feel it."
He breaks.
His whole body goes rigid, back arching off the bed, and I feel him pulse inside me — hot and deep and claiming. The sensation tips me over the edge with him, my orgasm crashing through me in waves that leave me shaking, clenching around him, crying out his name like it's the only word I know.
We fall together. Collapse together. His arms circle around me, pulling me down against his chest, and I can feel his heart hammering beneath my cheek — wild and erratic, matching my own.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We just breathe, tangled together, skin on skin, and I realize that for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m wrapped up with a dangerous man and there’s a smile on my face.
The thought flashes through my mind: how long until this one turns my smile into tears? Are these arms around me safety, or are they a cage like the last time?
“Something wrong?” Breaker says, his eyes searching mine.
I smile and shake my head. “Nothing at all.”