Chapter 30 #2
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Not now.
Carrson climbs over me, settling between my legs, his weight careful but solid.
“If you don’t want this,” he says, “you need to tell me now. Once I start,” he inhales, “I won’t be able to stop.”
“Don’t stop.” I tilt my pelvis up to him. An invitation.
That small movement breaks him. Any last hesitation falls away. He pushes his hips forward and slots himself into position. Every nerve lights up, alive with anticipation, as I search the dark for a hint of his expression.
Is he holding back?
Or already gone?
He brings his forehead to mine, our breath mingling between us. “I’m not a good person,” he whispers.
It sounds like a confession. Like a warning.
Like the last door he’s giving me the chance to walk back through.
Fuck that.
“Good,” I say. “Neither am I.”
He pushes into me. Going slow like he wants to memorize this, how I take him in, how deep he can go.
I exhale as my body adjusts, reacting to him. I lift my hips and urge him on, unable to stay still when every instinct screams to move. He slides forward until he’s fully seated inside me. Then he stops, but I can feel him. How hard he is. How he pulses. He’s barely holding on.
“This is—” He breaks off, as if he doesn’t have the words.
I don’t either.
His hands go to my hips, anchoring me as he moves again, quicker, harder.
He repeats the motion, gliding in and out at a fast pace.
His breath is hot puffs of air that blow across my cheek.
He lets out a deep sensual groan, and that’s how I know he’s not trying to understand anymore.
He’s inside it. Living it, and I think we’ve found it, that everything is clicking.
Then he stops.
Completely.
His head drops, his hair brushing my forehead. His fingers dig into my skin, holding me in place.
“Wait.” The word comes out low. Strained.
My body protests immediately, grieving the sudden loss of him, but he stays frozen.
Too far. I pushed him too far.
He’s going to say that this—us—was a mistake.
“Are you okay?” I ask, hating how much I need the answer to be yes.
His forehead presses to mine.
“I don’t—” He cuts himself off. “I…give me a minute.”
He shifts, a shallow roll of his hips, like he’s testing it. Regaining ground.
“Don’t move.” He pulls out and, with a quick thrust, slams back in.
We both cry out at that, the sound bouncing off the stone walls around us and returning louder. Then he’s back. Moving with me, hips rolling, going deeper each time. He picks up the pace, and it’s different now. Faster, more aware, like he’s done searching and decided.
“So good,” I slur, encouraging him.
“Yes,” he murmurs, moving more quickly. Pulling out, then driving back into me. Again. Again. The handcuffs jangle, adding to the combined sound of our panting. To my moans of pleasure. The orgasm is back, building fast, each muscle tense and straining.
My arms ache above my head, tingling, useless, when all I want is to pull him closer and hold him, but I know he wouldn’t like that, and it’s not important enough to push. Not right now, when he’s come so far.
Carrson leans down and kisses me.
“I’m close,” I warn.
“Me too,” he answers. “Say my name when you come. Now.”
“Oh—” I gasp, my head snapping to the side. “Oh, it’s—I’m—”
The moment pulls taut and then breaks.
We come together.
His hands on my hips. My hands over my head.
It’s endless. Wave after wave of orgasm rushes through me as I cry out his name, calling for him as everything inside me comes undone.
Carrson answers. A low, guttural sound, my name on his lips as he lets go.
We thrash, thrusting into each other, chasing the last of it, before slowing and finally going quiet. We stay that way for a long minute, suspended in the aftermath, as the tension drains away.
Finally, Carrson pulls out and steps off the altar. There’s a click as he releases the handcuffs and my arms drop uselessly to my sides. I can’t hide my whimper as pain rushes in, burning, prickling, stabbing. A thousand tiny needles plunging into my skin.
Carrson murmurs sympathetically and runs his hands up and down my arms, urging the blood flow to come back. Once the worst passes, he strikes a match and lights the torch. After so much darkness, the light burns. I lift a hand to shield my eyes, blinking against the sting as my vision clears.
The key to the room has fallen from my pants. Carrson picks it up and pockets it.
I don’t bother to protest. I’ve already seen everything hidden here.
After that, he helps me stand, and we dress. With his arm around my waist, he leads me up the winding stone staircase. My head falls against his shoulder as we walk. I’m heavy, pliant, my eyelids slipping closed as we leave the cold and the dark behind.
He takes me to my bedroom, tucks me in like a child.
“Carrson?”
“Yeah?”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to ruin this, whatever this is, but the thought won’t go away. “I’m—I’m sorry for sticking my nose into your things. I can’t help it sometimes.”
He sits on the side of my bed and brushes the hair from my face. “Let’s just say I’m not surprised.”
I crack an eye open. “You expected me to do it?”
“I’ve been watching you.” His mouth quirks at that, like it’s his own private joke. “I know you better than you think.”
“You’re not mad?”
I shouldn’t care about his opinion. I hate that I care, but somehow I do.
A kiss to my forehead. So light it almost tricks me into thinking he’s gentle. Safe. I relax into him, into the warmth lingering in me, the way my muscles go loose and heavy against the mattress.
Then his hand slides down from my temple, across my cheek, and down to my neck.
His fingers circle my throat. Right where the knife was.
His thumb brushes against my skin, over the frantic beat of my pulse, claiming it without a word.
My eyes snap open. Each muscle draws taut, but it isn’t with fear. Not entirely. It’s darker. It attracts instead of repels, draws me in even as every logical part of me tries to pull back.
I should speak. Tell him no. Scream at him to leave, that this is too far, but the words lodge somewhere deep, caught behind the steady pressure of his hand and the way he watches me, as if he already knows they’re not coming.
His fingers tighten enough to remind me how easily they could hurt me, then ease.
The bed creaks as Carrson rises to his feet. He stands there, staring down at me, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t worry,” he says.
Then he smiles. Like he knows something I don’t.
He leans close, his lips to my ear, as if he’s going to tell me a secret or make me a promise.
“I’ll punish you later.”
Wait.
What?