Chapter Fourteen
~ Carter ~
I woke to the feeling of hands—big, sure, and impossible to mistake for anyone else’s—sliding over my hip and belly. It was still dark, but in the Montana pre-dawn the difference between asleep and awake had always been just a suggestion, not a rule.
I kept my eyes closed, cataloguing the details: the sheets tangled around my calves, the solid wall of Macon’s chest pressed along my back, the way his thigh caged mine just enough to make turning over optional, not possible.
He always started slow, as if I was something he’d built himself, something to be inspected for flaws and admired for the effort.
His palm traced over my distended stomach, fingertips splaying against my skin.
I felt the scrape of callus and the low buzz of his morning stubble as he nuzzled into the slope where my shoulder met my neck.
I pretended to still be asleep, but he knew.
He always knew.
“Morning,” he whispered, voice wrapped in gravel and promise.
I grunted, because he liked it, and felt his smile in the shift of his jaw against my nape.
The world condensed to this: Macon’s hand skating slow over my stomach, which, at nearly six months, was less of a bump and more of a statement.
He never hesitated, never touched me like I was made of glass, just set his hand there and let it rest, thumb rubbing idle circles until my breath evened out.
He adjusted his leg behind me, pinning me closer, and I felt the heat of him—his morning hard-on thick and pulsing against the cleft of my ass.
I wanted to wriggle back, to grind into him and drag out the last ounce of sleep from his body, but he was already there, already reading every micro-movement.
He let his lips wander, open-mouthed kisses working along my neck and up behind my ear.
I shivered, not from cold but from the way he always managed to find the spot that would turn my bones to powder.
His breath was hot and steady, the rhythm of it matching the slow roll of his hips, as if the world outside the bedroom didn’t exist.
He brought his hand up to cup my chest, fingers splaying over my sternum and dragging down, flattening me against him.
I felt every inch of muscle, every scar and healed-over memory, mapped against the length of my body.
His other hand—the dangerous one, the one that could pick locks or snap bone or build a dovetail joint with the same precision—slid down my belly, following the line of my navel.
I exhaled, slow and shallow, as he palmed my cock, already half-hard and straining. The contact was electric, the friction of his fingers slow but insistent.
I arched my hips, wanting more, but he just gripped the base and squeezed, then let go, as if to remind me whose body this was.
When I tried to roll onto my back to kiss him, he pressed his hand to my shoulder, holding me in place. The restraint wasn’t rough, but there was no room for argument.
“Stay,” he growled, mouth close to my ear. “Let me take care of you like this.”
A shockwave went through me. I’d spent most of my life trying to run things, to control outcomes and manage the fallout before it could bury me.
But here, now, with Macon’s arms caging me and his cock throbbing between my cheeks, I let myself believe—just for a second—that being out of control was the whole point.
He rocked his hips forward, letting me feel the heft of him, then pulled back just enough to slide his hand lower, past my cock, past the seam of skin behind my balls.
He brushed the spot, feather-light, then pressed in.
I jerked, and he bit down on the curve of my shoulder, not enough to mark, but enough to warn.
“I’ve got you,” he said, as if I was the one who needed convincing.
He fumbled in the nightstand for lube, the click of the cap loud in the hush of the room.
The cold gel slicked my skin, then his fingers, and the next touch was pure glide—a circle around my hole, a gentle pressure, the unhurried way he let me feel every increment of entry.
My breath stuttered, and I dug my heels into the mattress for leverage, but he just pressed his thigh tighter over mine, holding me steady.
He worked a single finger inside, slow and patient.
I clenched, out of habit, then relaxed, letting the pulse of heat and want overtake the last of my anxiety.
He curled the finger, testing, then pumped a few times before adding another.
Two fingers now, scissoring, stretching me with a focus that bordered on reverence.
My cock drooled against his fist, which kept the rhythm—up, down, twisting just so at the crown, squeezing every third stroke like a metronome. I was close already, body reduced to a hair trigger, nerves strung tight with anticipation.
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty and desperate. I made a noise, high and needy, and he laughed, low and smug, the sound vibrating through my spine.
“Eager this morning,” he murmured, then bit my ear.
He slid his cock between my cheeks, grinding against my hole, but not pushing in, just letting the slicked head part me, teasing, threatening. His hand still worked my cock, faster now, the other arm banded under my neck, pinning me in place.
I gasped. I tried to reach back, to pull him inside, but he caught my wrist and pinned it to my chest, fingers lacing through mine.
The pressure built. I whined, wordless, and he pressed his lips to the back of my neck, teeth scraping the skin.
“Easy,” he whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a promise.
When he finally lined up and pressed in, it was slow, excruciating—every millimeter a negotiation between pleasure and pain.
I forced myself to breathe through it, to relax, to let him in.
The stretch was overwhelming, the sensation of being filled both familiar and brand new.
His cock was so thick it always felt like the first time, and he paused halfway, letting me adjust, rubbing my chest and belly to soothe the tremors.
“Good?” he asked, voice barely more than a grunt.
“Fuck,” I managed, eyes watering. “Yeah.”
He pushed all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and just held there, letting me get used to the size, the heat, the ownership. He let go of my hand and wrapped his arm around my chest, anchoring me, while his other hand found my cock again, jerking me off with the same careful strength.
He started to move, shallow at first, then deeper, each thrust more sure than the last. The angle was perfect—every time he bottomed out, he hit the spot that made my toes curl.
He set a rhythm, in, out, squeeze, pull, until I was floating, until the whole world contracted to the pulse of his cock inside me and his palm on my cock.
I could feel the orgasm building, white-hot and inevitable, cresting so fast it almost scared me. I clawed at his forearm, fingers digging into muscle, and he grunted his approval, thrusting harder, rougher.
“Come for me,” he said, the words dark and absolute.
I obeyed. The orgasm hit like a landslide, rippling through me in waves, my cum shooting over his hand and my stomach, soaking the sheets. My ass clenched around him, milking his cock, and he followed a moment later, burying his face in my hair and groaning my name as he emptied himself inside me.
We stayed like that for a long time, his cock softening but not slipping out, his hands never leaving my skin.
When I finally caught my breath, I laughed—giddy, free, alive in a way that felt brand new. “Jesus, Macon,” I said, voice wrecked. “You trying to kill me?”
He kissed my shoulder, then rolled us to our sides, still locked together, one hand stroking lazy patterns over my stomach. “Just keeping you honest,” he said, and I felt the smile in his voice.
I closed my eyes, letting the afterglow buzz through my veins. I’d never felt more at home, more safe, or more seen than I did in that exact moment—anchored by his arms, his scent, his promise.
Tomorrow, there would be a new battle. Maybe a new war. But right now, in the dark with Macon’s arms around me and his cum leaking out of me, I belonged.
I was home.
I barely had time to come down before Macon shifted behind me, rolling his hips so his cock pressed hard and unyielding against my entrance again. He nudged at my hole, once, twice, teasing, then paused to kiss the back of my neck.
“You ready?” he whispered, as if there was ever a universe in which I’d say no. I might have come mere moments ago, but I’d never say no, not to this connection with him.
“Please,” I said, the word so raw and needy it embarrassed me.
He lined up and pushed in again, slow as a sunrise. I felt every ridge, every pulse, the burn of being stretched open so deliberate it sent shivers up my spine.
I grabbed for the pillow, knuckles going white as I tried to breathe. He paused after the head popped in, giving me a second to adjust, then advanced another inch, then another, patience incarnate.
“Fuck,” I hissed, forehead pressed to the mattress.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Macon soothed, voice a low rumble against my skin. He wrapped his arms tighter, pulling me back to his chest so I could feel his heart pounding, not just his cock.
His mouth went everywhere—jaw, ear, the slope of my throat—wet kisses marking a trail of ownership down to my shoulder. The sensation was so much, too much, not enough.
He moved in micro-thrusts, every flex of his hips opening me further, forcing my body to admit him. When he was finally all the way in, balls pressed flush to my ass, he just held there, breathing hard into the shell of my ear.
“You feel like home,” he whispered, and something in me broke open. I blinked, and realized there were tears on my face, caught in the pillowcase.
He felt it, somehow. He always did.
“You okay?” he murmured, gentling the pressure, one hand stroking up and down my belly.
“Don’t stop,” I begged. “God, don’t ever stop.”
He began to move, finally, slow and deep, hips grinding in lazy arcs that let me feel every ridge and vein. The angle was perfect—he knew how to find it, how to fuck me until I forgot my own name.
His hand reached around and found my cock again, still sensitive, still leaking. He stroked me in time with his thrusts, every pump of his hand synchronized with the drag of his cock inside me.
His other arm, the one braced under my neck, shifted so his fingers could tweak my nipple, rolling it between forefinger and thumb until my whole chest lit up.
I whimpered, helpless to do anything but take it, to let myself be fucked and touched and held until I was more sensation than person. I could feel the aftershocks from my first orgasm, the slow build of a second already coming up behind it.
He rocked into me, steady and relentless, every thrust making the world go fuzzy around the edges.
My belly—heavy, sensitive—pressed into the mattress with every motion, and I loved the way he adjusted, the way his big hands made me feel small and precious even when he was fucking me within an inch of my life.
He bit down on my shoulder, not hard, just enough to anchor me, to let me know exactly who was in control. His voice in my ear, ragged with need: “Mine.”
“Yours,” I gasped, and meant it.
He picked up the pace, thrusts getting rougher, more urgent. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking against the wall, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the whole county heard us. All I wanted was to stay right here, wrapped up in the heat and promise of him.
He brought me to the edge fast, the dual assault of his cock and hand making my legs shake. I clawed at the sheets, begging him to go faster, slower, never stop.
“Come for me,” he ordered once again, and the command stripped away the last of my restraint.
I could feel myself right at the edge, whole body tingling, every nerve focused on the place where we were joined. His grip on my cock tightened, his thrusts hitting the spot with ruthless accuracy.
He buried his face in my neck, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Let go,” he whispered. “I want to feel you come apart.”
And I did.
The orgasm detonated inside me, pleasure blanking out the world in a flash of white. My cock spasmed in Macon’s grip, hot and wet as I shot all over his hand, my own stomach, the sheets. I cried out his name, loud enough to scare the birds off the eaves.
My ass clenched around his cock, milking him, and that was all it took—he drove in deep, his whole body locking up, and groaned, “Carter—fuck—” into the curve of my shoulder. I felt the heat of him filling me, the pulse of it as he shuddered through his own climax.
He didn’t pull out. He never did, not right away. Instead, he wrapped both arms around me, one hand splayed over my heart, the other palm still sticky with my release. He held me like he thought I might disappear, breath ragged in my ear.
We floated there, suspended between seconds, my pulse finally slowing to something manageable.
His cock stayed inside, softening, but still plugging me, as he kissed the back of my neck, the line of my jaw, the place just below my ear that always made me shiver. I rolled my hips, greedy for the aftershocks, and he huffed a laugh, lazy and full of pride.
“Greedy,” he said, voice thick with affection.
I twisted to look back at him, and the expression on his face—sated, content, worshipful—almost undid me all over again.
He reached up and wiped the tears off my cheek with his thumb, then pressed his lips to my temple. “You okay?” he asked, softer this time.
“Never better,” I said, and meant it.
He eased us over so we were on our sides once again, his cock still inside, his arms locked around me. My belly fit perfectly against his palm, his hand spreading over the swell like he was already protecting both of us.
I closed my eyes and let myself go weightless, trusting him to hold me, to anchor me to the world.
“I love you,” I whispered, the words a secret only for the dark.
He squeezed me tighter. “I know,” he said. “I love you, too.”
We lay like that, tangled and breathless, until the sky outside the window went from black to blue to gold.
I didn’t think about the past, or the future, or the thousand things that could go wrong.
All I cared about was the heat of Macon’s body, the taste of his skin, the way his heart thudded steady against my back.
Here, in his arms, with his come inside me and the promise of forever humming in my veins, I was home.
Nothing and no one could touch that.
Not now. Not ever.