Chapter 25 #3
His hands are everywhere, tracing the lines of my body with a reverence that makes me shiver.
He cups my jaw, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, before trailing down to my chest, his fingers circling my nipples until they harden into tight, sensitive peaks under his touch.
I gasp, arching into him, and he takes the invitation, his mouth closing over one nipple, drawing it between his teeth.
His tongue flicks over the nerve endings, pulling a hard shudder from my spine as I writhe beneath him.
He moves further down, his lips and tongue tracing a wet path down the centre of my stomach to the waistband of my trousers and boxers.
He looks up at me, his blue eyes dark and completely dilated with desire, and slowly, deliberately, he pulls the fabric down, his broad hands dragging the material down the length of my legs and tossing it aside.
He kneels between my spread thighs, his broad shoulders eclipsing the moonlight.
He doesn't hesitate. He leans over and takes my aching erection fully into his mouth.
The contrast is staggering—the cool silk of the sheets against my back and the sudden, consuming, wet heat of his mouth.
I cry out, my hips involuntarily jerking upward, my fingers tangling deeply in his blonde curls.
His lips slide down the shaft, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head, sucking with a firm, rhythmic pressure that draws a jagged, breathy sound from my throat.
The sensation builds, a coiling, white-hot tension, but just as my vision begins to blur, he pulls back.
“Turn over.” His voice is a dark, rough command.
My medical training short-circuits, leaving only instinct.
He grips my hips, his strong hands easily flipping me over and positioning me on my knees, my chest pressed to the mattress.
He parts my glutes, exposing me entirely to the cool air, and then his mouth descends again.
His tongue is broad and wet, tracing the tight ring of muscle before pressing firmly against my entrance.
I bury my face in the pillows to muffle my cries as he laves and swirls his tongue directly into me, relentlessly tasting and teasing.
He works me with a filthy, consuming skill that leaves me gasping, effectively keeping me suspended right on the edge of pleasure but refusing to let me fall.
When he finally gently urges me back onto my back, his mouth finds mine, and I taste my own musky scent on his lips.
I reach down, my hands finding the waistband of his pants.
I shove them down over his broad hips, my fingers wrapping eagerly around the thick, heavy length of him.
He groans into my open mouth, his hips violently jerking forward in my grip, and I stroke him, my thumb firmly circling the weeping tip until he's panting, his forehead pressed flush against mine.
“Arjun,” he says, his voice low and completely wrecked.
I guide him to me, my legs wrapping tight around his back. Without breaking eye contact, I reach into the nightstand, my blind fingers pulling out a small bottle of lube I had stashed there as a just-in-case, a contingency.
He takes it from my trembling hand. I watch his large, capable hands—the hands that saved a child tonight—liberally coat his long fingers in the slick gel.
He holds my gaze as he reaches down and slides a single, thick finger inside me.
The stretch is sudden and blunt, and my spine bows off the bed.
He strokes exactly over the bundle of nerves that makes my legs shake, adding a second finger, scissoring them open to stretch the tight band of muscle.
He works the slickness deep into me until the stinging friction melts into a hot, pooling, desperate ache for him.
He heavily coats his own thick length then discards the bottle. He positions the blunt head at my entrance, his breath ghosting over my wet lips.
He pushes inside, a slow, inexorable slide of thick, hot pressure.
The sensation is absolute—a terrifying, wonderful stretching fullness that leaves me gasping, my nails digging half-moons into the dense muscle of his back.
He sinks to the hilt, burying himself so completely inside me that I can feel the heavy thump of his pulse deep in my core.
He stills, his forearms bracketing my head, his entire massive frame trembling with the effort of holding back.
I look up at him, my eyes locking onto his.
“Don't hold back,” I whisper.
He begins to move. He pulls back until he's almost entirely out, then drives his hips forward, burying himself with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin.
The rhythm is primal and punishingly deep.
Each thrust claims me with a ferocity that leaves me breathless, sending shockwaves of thick pleasure through my nervous system.
The world narrows entirely to this: to the heavy sound of our bodies colliding, the scent of sweat and sex in the dark room, and the slick, maddening friction of him sliding deep inside me, claiming me.
The tension coils tighter and tighter, an unbearable, building pressure, and this time, he doesn't let up. He reaches down between our slick bodies, his large hand wrapping firmly around my heavily throbbing cock, stroking in perfect, brutal time with his thrusts.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. I am teetering violently on the edge.
“Casey,” I gasp, my head thrashing on the pillow. He knows. He knows I'm right there. He leans down, his sweaty forehead pressing hard against mine, his thrusts turning jagged and desperate.
“Together,” he grunts against my lips, his grip on me tightening. “Come for me, Arjun.”
That's all it takes. The last wall comes down, and I shatter, a ragged cry ripping from my throat as my body violently convulses around his length.
Hot fluid shoots across his hand and my stomach as the orgasm wracks my body.
The tight internal spasms of my climax milk him perfectly, and with a deep, guttural roar, Casey follows me over.
He drives in completely, his hips locking down hard against mine as he unloads inside me, a hot, pulsing flood that sends intense aftershocks rippling through my entire body.
We collapse against each other, our limbs tangled and slick with sweat, our breaths tearing out of our lungs in ragged gasps.
We stay like that for what feels like hours but can only be minutes, our chests rising and falling against each other.
Eventually, his weight shifts, and Casey rolls softly to the side, taking me with him so we remain tangled.
His hands are lazy now, trailing aimlessly down my spine, but the electric hum in my blood refuses to dissipate entirely.
I do not want to sleep. I do not want this to end.
I slide a leg over his hip, my mouth finding the salt-slicked skin of his neck. Casey lets out a low, surprised chuckle, his hands instantly gripping my waist.
“Round two, Doc?” he rumbles, his voice thick and vibrating against my chest. “Are you sure? You just had quite the adrenaline crash a few hours ago.”
“I am a medical professional,” I murmur against his collarbone, shifting my weight to align us once more. “I know my limits.”
The second time is different. The frantic, desperate need of the first round is gone, replaced by a greedy, uncharted tenderness.
I push him flat against the mattress and straddle his hips, grabbing the discarded bottle of lube to re-coat us both.
I reach down to guide his easily roused length back inside me, but my knee slips on the sweat-dampened silk.
We are clumsy in places. We laugh at a wrong angle and bump elbows and knock a water glass off the nightstand, and it does not matter.
None of it matters. Because this is not a performance.
This is the most honest thing either of us has ever done, and honesty is messy, and messy is human, and for the first time in my life, I am not afraid of being human.
When it is over, when we have spent each other completely and lie gasping in the tangled wreckage of the silk sheets, I am not thinking about margins of error or surgical precision or controlled outcomes.
I am thinking about the weight of Casey’s body beside mine, and the way his breathing sounds when it’s slowing down, and the extraordinary, almost violent tenderness of being known by someone so completely that there is nothing left to hide.
After, we lie tangled together. The moonlight has moved across the floor. The sheets are a warm disaster around us, and the room smells of sweat and skin and the warm, specific, irreplaceable scent of two people who have finally stopped pretending.
Casey is on his back. I am on my side, pressed against him, my head on his chest, my hand over his heart. Our legs are intertwined. The sheets are a disaster. The pillow wall is a historical artefact from a civilization that no longer exists.
“Hey, Doc,” Casey says, and his voice is slow and warm and wrecked in the best possible way.
“Mm.”
“I love you too. In case that wasn't clear.”
“It was clear.”
“I just wanted to say it when I'm not in the middle of a crisis.
I wanted to say it in the quiet part. The part where we're just lying here and nobody's seizing and nobody's screaming and the Home Secretary isn't at dinner.” He turns his head and presses his lips against my hair. “I love you. In the quiet part.”
My throat is tight. My eyes are burning. I press my face harder against his chest and I hold him, and I do not count the seconds, and I do not calculate the margins, and I do not think about what comes next.
Because what comes next is morning, and morning at the Kapoor estate always brings complications.
But right now, in the dark, with his heartbeat under my ear and the warm, heavy, profound stillness of two people who have finally, finally arrived at the same place at the same time, right now is enough.
Right now is everything.
My hands, resting on his chest, are perfectly still.