Chapter 14
Kip
I slide down Hutch’s body, positioning my mouth over his tip. He starts to thrust upward, but I plant my free hand on his stomach, stopping him. “Oh no, you don’t. We’ve got all night. We’re not rushing this.”
His hands fist the sheet. “You realize slow torture’s still torture, right?”
“Nothing wrong with prolonging the pleasure.”
I swipe at his slit with my tongue, lapping up a drop of precum. It’s thick and slippery and almost sweet, and it makes me want more so I take another swipe.
Hutch hisses, and his cock does a happy little dance in my hand. I tighten my grip on the base and give a long, leisurely lick up his length before I take him in my mouth, savoring the shiver that races through him as I work my way down inch by inch.
The next few minutes are a messy symphony of soft moans, short gasps, and breathless teasing, the playful tension making every touch feel electric.
When I finally pull off him, I’m as hard as he is, both of us flushed and desperate for release.
I’ve always been a fan of blow jobs, no matter which side of the action I’m on, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on from giving one.
“Fucking hell, Carmichael,” Hutch grunts. “If I don’t come soon, you’ll have to scrape what’s left of me off the ceiling.”
“Carmichael?” I manage between breaths. “Pretty sure we’re on a first name basis, considering I just had your dick in my mouth.”
He reaches down to catch my wrist, eyes blazing. “I swear to God, if you don’t get inside me in the next ten seconds, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
I’m tempted to tell him that sounds like a win/win proposition to me, but the look on his face, want and challenge all tangled up together, kills the joke before it leaves my mouth.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wondered over the past few days how Hutch would be in bed, whether he’d fight for the lead or give it up.
The answer’s written all over him now, sprawled out, panting, undone.
And fuck if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Are you sure you’re ready for me?” I’m not as big as he is, but I’m not exactly small either, and it’s not as if I’ve had the chance to prep him.
“If I were any more ready, I’d be writing you a bloody invitation.”
I crawl up his hard, hot body, positioning myself at his entrance. I spit in my hand and fumble for my dick, and that’s when I realize we’ve got a big problem.
“Shit.”
He tenses. “What?”
“I, uh … didn’t exactly pack for this.”
For a beat, he just stares, then understanding dawns and he laughs, husky and disbelieving. “The one bloody time you forget to plan ahead.”
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, buttercup. But you won’t be laughing when I can’t get inside you because you’re not getting a damn inch of me without protection.”
He jerks his chin toward his jeans by the chair. “There’s one in my wallet. Back pocket.”
I blink. “You carry them around with you? All the time?”
“Boy Scout motto,” he says, grinning. “Be prepared.”
“I didn’t know they had Boy Scouts in the UK,” I mumble as I find his jeans and fish through the pockets.
“Us Brits invented scouting.” He drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “And if you don’t hurry the fuck up and get back over here, I’m going to use my finely honed scout survival skills to light a fire under your arse.”
“Eureka.” I hold up the foil packet like it’s the Holy Grail.
Hutch exhales, more of a sigh than a breath. “About fucking time.”
I crawl back up the bed, tearing the packet open with my teeth, and the look he gives me—hungry, reckless, already half gone—nearly makes me forget what I’m doing. My hands shake a little as I roll the condom on. His legs fall open for me, invitation written in every long, gorgeous line of him.
I know he says he’s ready for me, but before I even think about pushing inside him, I lean in and kiss the inside of his knee, then the hard line of his thigh, my fingers following the trail upward as I go. He watches me with that dazed, wanting focus that slams into my chest.
“Let me take care of you,” I murmur, more whisper than words.
I press my fingertips to him, circling slowly.
He opens a little more, hips angling toward me, clearly not knowing—or not caring—how close he’s getting.
When I ease the first finger in, he lets out this guttural, unguarded sound that makes my skin tingle.
I work him open patiently, lazy strokes, a gentle curl, then a little deeper.
Air stutters out of him, and his hand finds my free one on the sheets and grips.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Just like that.”
I add a second finger, feeling him relax around me, welcome me.
His head falls back, throat bared, and something hot and protective unfurls in me at the sight.
When he’s loose and shifting against my hand, hungry for more, I pull my fingers free and line myself up, teasing his entrance with the tip of my cock.
He cups the back of my neck, dragging me down until our mouths almost touch. “If you don’t get inside me right now, I’m defecting to McLaren.”
He ends on a sound that’s half laugh, half plea, and it shoots straight through me. I guide his leg up around my hip, the shift in his body sending a shiver across both of us. He’s open, waiting, every line of him saying yes, no hesitation left anywhere in him.
Our foreheads brush. His fingers slide into my hair.
“Kip,” he whispers, and it’s not a command this time. It’s a want, a need, a confession.
I ease forward, letting him feel every inch of what’s coming. He tenses, then melts, his breath catching against my cheek.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You feel—”
I swallow the rest with my mouth, kissing him through the rush of sensation, through the way his hands clutch at me, afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. And for a few dizzying seconds, all the noise in my head goes silent.
It’s just him. Hutch under me, around me, pulling me closer, every inch of him claiming what he’s been waiting for all damn day. And when he finally breaks the kiss to gasp my name, I know I’m done for.
“Kip—” His voice cracks, fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Don’t stop.”
Like that’s an option.
“I’m not going anywhere.” It scares me that I mean it more than I should.
Hutch clings to me like I’m the only solid thing in the room, his thigh tightening around my hip as he pulls me deeper against him.
Every sound he makes, every hitched breath, every hoarse, broken gasp, spurs me on.
He meets me with a desperate, focused intensity, chasing something only I can give him.
The rhythm builds fast—too fast—but he’s already trembling, already right there beneath my hands. He buries his face in my neck, teeth grazing my skin, and the way he shudders tells me everything I need to know.
It hits him suddenly, his whole body tightening, breath punching out of him as he comes apart.
I hold him through it, through the way he gasps and clutches and tries to get even closer, as if he wants to fuse us together.
The second he surrenders and goes all shaky beneath me, the rush takes me too.
I’m gone before I can even fight it, biting down on a groan against his shoulder.
When it’s done, I collapse onto him, caging him in but careful not to crush him. He lets out a ragged, wrecked laugh, one hand drawing lazy lines along my spine.
“Bloody hell,” he murmurs. “If that’s what threatening to defect gets me …”
I lift my head to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re not leaving LaRue. Not on my watch. Jacques would have my head.”
He smiles, sleepy and satisfied. I ease out of him, clean us up with the last of the hotel tissues, and tug him against me. He curls in without hesitation, thigh thrown over mine, head tucked under my chin like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of … whatever we’re calling tonight.
His breathing evens out in minutes. I stroke my thumb along his shoulder until his muscles completely melt and he’s out cold in my arms.
And even though I know I should pull away, should keep some kind of distance, I don’t. I hold him, listen to the steady rise and fall of his chest, and let myself drift asleep too.