Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Laurel
Carrson doesn’t give me a chance to second-guess it. He cuts through the crowd like a knife, barely brushing bodies. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow down, just stalks toward the staircase. A man with a singular goal.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my breath coming in short bursts. I’m half-drugged with lust, my blood pounding in my ears. I tighten my grip around his neck, still shocked that he’s carrying me. Even more shocked that I attacked him that way, in front of everyone.
“Somewhere you can scream, and no one will interrupt,” Carrson says without looking down.
Damn.
That should not turn me on as much as it does.
A few flights of stairs later, he takes me to his bedroom, our bedroom.
He’s kissing me again before the door closes.
It’s feral. Messy. All the anger, want, and confusion between us combust in a single breath.
He shifts me in his arms until I’m straddling his waist, his hands gripping my ass.
His mouth never leaves mine as he turns, carrying me blindly through the room until my spine hits the wall.
My legs wrap around his hips. My fingers tangle in his hair.
We lose ourselves in each other, tongues, mouths, moans layered and desperate.
God, I had no idea I could feel like this. This good. This insane with desire. This consumed. Carrson kisses me like he owns my mouth. Like he owns me.
He stops.
“What—” I gasp, chasing his lips, still humming with need.
“Bed,” he growls. His voice is low and rough. “I need you in bed. Now.”
He spins so fast it makes me dizzy and strides across the room.
His grip loosens, and I fall onto the mattress with a soft thud.
Carrson’s on me before I can breathe. He pushes me into the pillows, braced over me on one bent elbow.
His other hand slides down, over my stomach, lower, until it settles between my legs.
My pelvis arches up instinctively, already aching for him.
Instead of giving me what I need, he cups me through my jeans.
Just enough pressure to make me whimper.
He shifts, kneeling above me, a knee on each side of my hips. He catches my wrists, gathers them together, and pins them above my head with one hand. His other hand rubs a slow, merciless line over the seam of my jeans. Right between my legs. This time with more pressure. My body jerks beneath him.
It feels so good. Too good.
It’s not enough.
“Don’t tease me,” I whisper.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His breath is hot. “Not teasing, Kitten,” he murmurs. “Training.”
He kisses my neck again, slow and dirty. His mouth drags down to the curve where my throat meets my shoulder, lingering as his fingers work the button of my jeans. He doesn’t rush. Just slides the zipper down, inch by inch, like he’s savoring my torment.
My body wants this, craves it, but some small part of me trembles, aware of how exposed I am, of how fast this is moving.
When his hand finally slips beneath the waistband, I forget that hesitation. I let go and arch into him, my breath hitching, desperate, but his touch is feather-light, delicate. A soft stroke. A gentle graze. Enough to ignite me, but not enough to let me burn.
“Carrson,” I whisper, my hips rolling, chasing friction. “Please.”
A dark chuckle. “Told you you’d beg for me someday.”
He pulls back. Just…takes his hands off me.
I start to protest but stop when I see why.
He’s undressing.
I fall silent, my breath caught in my throat, watching wide-eyed as he strips.
First his shirt, tugged over his head in one fluid motion, muscles flexing, his skin flushed and golden in the dim light.
Then his belt, pants, and boxer briefs hit the floor one by one, rustling softly like fallen leaves.
Until, finally, he’s bare.
I’ve seen him half-naked before, plenty of times. As he came out of the shower. Got dressed in the morning. Slipped under the covers at night. The time he fought Sampson. I’ve caught pieces of him. Fleeting glimpses. A flash of defined abs. A peek of curved hip and sculpted ass as he turned away.
But this…this is all of him.
And it’s jaw-dropping.
Stunning.
A fucking work of art is Carrson Ashford naked.
He’s all broad shoulders and long lines, his chest tapering into a hard, ridged abdomen.
Light catches on the sharp V of his lower stomach, that deep groove that disappears beneath taut skin and muscle.
Like an arrow, it draws my eyes lower. His thighs are powerful, thick, carved with muscle.
They could open me wide, pin me down, keep me exactly where he wants me.
Veins snake down his forearms, his hands twitching like he’s barely holding himself back.
His cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark, straining with need.
Carrson catches me staring. He smirks. “Like what you see?”
Arrogant, as usual.
“Please,” I scoff, forcing my gaze up to his face like I wasn’t just ogling his cock like it belongs in a museum. “You’re not that impressive.”
One of his brows lifts. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Oh no?” His voice is low and dangerously amused. “You’re staring like I’m the last glass of water in a desert.”
“I was looking at your…uh…knees,” I lie. Badly.
“Uh-huh.”
He steps closer, and I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. “Want to try that again? Or do you want to admit the truth—” His fingers brush the waistband of my jeans, and heat blooms low in my belly, “that you love the way I look when I’m about to ruin you.”
I swallow hard. My body answers before I can, my hips tilting, breath hitching, heat pooling low.
He sees it. His gaze rakes over me, slow and scorching. Something behind his eyes sharpens. It’s dark. Ravenous. Predatory in a way that makes my thighs clench and my breath stutter.
“Strip.”
The command cracks through the air like a whip.
“It’s not the first time you’ve said that to me.” I give him a pointed look, my voice light but tinged with heat, a callback to the first night we spent in this room. When he forced me to stay.
“I remember,” he says, his mouth curving into a wicked grin. “Look how far we’ve come.”
He leans in and presses a single kiss to my lips, swift, sharp, over far too soon. Then he straightens, takes a step back, and crooks his finger in a slow, unmistakable command.
Undress.
So bossy, I think as I stare back, my jaw tight. Hmm. He thinks he’s the only one who can tease? Who can make someone ache with nothing but a look?
Fine. Two can play.
Thinking of all the almost-there touches he’s tortured me with, I decide it’s time for payback. A striptease might do the trick. I start with my shirt, peeling it off inch by inch. Slow. Deliberate. Then I unhook my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms like silk.
His eyes track every movement, and with each layer I shed his body gets tenser. His chest rises faster. His eyes darken until there’s nothing soft left in them, only hunger.
When I’m down to my panties, I smile up at him, sweet as sugar.
Teasing.
He’s not amused. His arms fold across his chest, biceps bulging, jaw clenched. I watch the muscle tick in his cheek. His stare is so sharp, it could cut glass.
“Take them off,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I lose whatever patience I have left.”
“Fine,” I huff, like it’s no big deal. I hook my thumbs into the sides of my panties and shimmy them down, slowly, then toss them aside.
There’s nothing between us now.
Carrson lays down beside me, his body a furnace against mine. His hand finds its way back between my legs, his fingers stroking, light, almost lazy, across my clit.
I gasp, one hand flying to his forearm, my fingers digging in, hard enough to leave marks. Maybe even draw blood.
He dips lower, close enough to make me cry out, but then he pulls back. He moves to my thighs instead, spreading me open, his eyes flicking between my face and the apex of my legs. His fingers slide through my wetness, finally making real contact with my clit, his fingers firm, purposeful.
My back arches off the bed. I moan, hips moving to the pace of his hand without thought. Carrson bites down on his lip as he watches me, his dark eyes unblinking.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful, Laurel.”
Suddenly, I forget how to breathe.
Every instinct screams at me to close my legs, cover myself, run. To hide before he can see too much. Before he realizes I’m not some untouchable seductress, just a girl with shaky hands and a history that still owns too many pieces of her.
I lock up, freeze, and squeeze my eyes shut as if by not looking at him, I can make this all go away. That’s a mistake because when I close my eyes all I see is a black dress ripped on the floor, stained with my blood. All I hear is my voice begging Preston to stop.
Carrson’s talking, saying something to me, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my ears combined with the sound of my breathing. Fast. Panicked. Too loud.
His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me gently. He’s saying my name, over and over again, soft but urgent.
By the time the fog lifts, when sound starts to make sense again, I’ve curled in on myself. I force my eyes open. Carrson’s there, all his earlier teasing, cockiness, and dominance gone. He hovers over me, his eyes wide and brow creased with worry.
I raise a trembling hand to my face, fingers brushing over my cheeks. They’re wet with tears. Strange. I don’t remember crying.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, the words barely making it past my lips as shame crashes over me. Here I am, naked, vulnerable, with the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’m a blathering mess. It’s humiliating.
Carrson pulls the blanket up, covering us both. Without a word, he lifts me and shifts us until he’s lying on his back and I’m draped across him, my cheek resting against his chest, the reassuring thud of his heart under my ear.