Chapter 6 Cider Sparks #2
“What about you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
His gaze held mine, and something shifted in the air between us. Something heavy. Dangerous.
“Honestly?” His voice was low, rough. “Right now? I want to stop feeling so goddamn alone.”
Proximity changed everything. The ordinary weight of the room, the hush of the night—suddenly, it felt like gravity had shifted.
Richard sat closer than before, knees almost brushing, the solid heat of him radiating across the short stretch of couch.
Lamplight caught the silver at his temples and the thread of gray in his beard, highlighting every line and shadow.
That face, so familiar in town, now looked raw—unguarded, hungry, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
A jolt ran through me, electric and dark.
My own hand trembled slightly as I set down my beer, nerves and anticipation warring in my chest. I watched him, searching for a sign that he might pull away, that any of this was just a mistake.
Instead, he just watched me back, steady and quiet, something fierce building in his eyes.
Power prickled under my skin. I leaned in, not touching, just close enough to let my breath mingle with his, waiting for him to flinch, to break the tension.
Nothing. He let me come closer, eyes darting down to my mouth, then back up, every muscle in his jaw tight with restraint.
My hand found his shoulder, thumb rubbing over the collarbone through the worn flannel.
Instead of gentleness, I squeezed, staking a claim—possessive, hungry, warning.
The world narrowed to the press of my palm, the tremor in his breath, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Richard let me push him, let me set the pace, surrendering the space between us.
His hands stayed on his knees, knuckles white, letting me have control, letting me decide how far we’d go.
I traced my thumb up the side of his throat, feeling the pulse hammering just under the skin. “You want this,” I said, low and rough. “Say it.”
Tension snapped in his voice. “I want it.”
My other hand caught his jaw, turning his face up to meet mine.
Still, I didn’t kiss him. Not yet. I studied him, holding him still, thumb tracing the stubble at his cheek, fingers curling behind his ear.
His breath hitched, lips parted, desperate for contact.
My thumb teased the corner of his mouth, tugging, testing how far I could push before he broke.
“Open up,” I murmured, voice gone feral.
A shaky breath left him, but he did as I told him—lips parting, tongue flicking out.
My thumb pressed in, sweeping over his tongue, just enough to taste the heat of him, the want.
He moaned, eyes fluttering closed, letting me use his mouth for a heartbeat before I pulled back, savoring the power in that surrender.
A new tension wound tight in my gut. The ache of holding back, of wanting to take and take and see how far he’d let me go. I didn’t just want to be wanted—I wanted to ruin him for anyone else.
Teeth nipped at his lower lip, just a warning, a taste, before I pulled away again, letting the moment drag out, watching him struggle for breath.
My knees bracketed his, closing him in, my body angled over his, one hand pressed to the back of the couch behind him, boxing him in. He couldn’t have moved if he tried.
Richard’s pupils were blown wide, a flush crawling up his neck. His hands flexed on his thighs, but he didn’t touch me, not yet. He waited, letting me take the lead, letting me decide if he’d get what he wanted.
“I shouldn’t,” I rasped, forehead pressed to his, noses brushing, every inch of me strung tight with the urge to devour him. “But I’m going to.”
A sound left him—half plea, half surrender. “Derek—please.”
Control felt good—too good. My mouth found his jaw, scraping teeth along the stubble, nipping, then soothing the sting with my tongue.
Each touch was deliberate, claiming. I worked my way down his throat, biting at the pulse point, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
He gasped, head tipping back, baring his neck for me, letting me have all of him.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” I growled against his skin, letting my free hand drift to the buttons of his flannel, tugging them open just enough to expose more flesh, not baring him completely—just teasing.
I didn’t want him naked. Not yet. I wanted him desperate, aching, straining against the confines of his own self-control.
One hand slid under the collar, gripping his nape, thumb stroking over the hairline as I pressed a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses along his throat, up to his ear. My breath was hot against the shell as I whispered, “You want to be fucked or worshipped tonight, Richard?”
A low, guttural moan escaped him, words lost in the haze of want. “I don’t care. I just want you.”
That was all I needed.
Finally, I claimed his mouth. The kiss wasn’t soft.
It was hungry—teeth, tongue, a clash of need and hunger, rough and insistent.
My hands tangled in his hair, holding him still, making him take everything I gave.
He opened for me, let me plunder, let me own.
My tongue swept deep, tasting beer and longing, swallowing every gasp, every helpless sound.
His hands moved, finally—just a twitch, fingers flexing, gripping the cushions at his sides, as if afraid that touching me would break the spell, would make this real.
That restraint was a gift, a surrender, and I pressed my advantage, biting his lower lip, tugging it between my teeth before soothing the hurt with a sweep of my tongue.
Air burned in my lungs, my body thrumming with arousal. The heat between us was electric, a living thing. Every nerve screamed to take, to break, to claim, but I held back, just enough to savor the way Richard squirmed beneath me, the way his hips lifted, begging for more.
“You like being handled?” I teased, voice ragged, lips dragging down his jaw. “Like letting someone else take charge for once?”
A choked laugh, shaky and honest, answered me. “Yeah. God, yes. Don’t stop.”
Pressure built between my thighs, cock straining against my jeans, but I kept my focus on him—on the way he writhed, on the desperate, pleading look in his eyes. I wanted him on edge, needy, wild with wanting.
My mouth claimed his again, deeper this time, tongue fucking into his mouth until he whimpered, hips rolling helplessly up to meet me.
One hand slid down his chest, splaying over his ribs, thumb circling a nipple through the thin fabric, feeling it pebble under my touch.
The power, the control—it was a drug, and I wanted to overdose.
Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, I let him see everything—the hunger, the need, the promise of what I’d do to him if he let me. “You want me, Richard? Tell me. Beg for it.”
Voice thick, rough with want, he obeyed. “I want you. Please, Derek—kiss me again. Touch me. Do whatever you want.”
Triumph surged through me. I kissed him hard, grinding my hips against his, letting him feel the size of my arousal, making him ache for more. Our clothes stayed on, the friction almost painful, but I wanted that desperation—I wanted him ruined, marked, desperate before I ever took anything else.
The world blurred out to just us—the hush of the room, the taste of his mouth, the way his body shuddered beneath my hands. I wanted to keep him on the edge forever, to draw out every second of this tension, to own him, utterly, before either of us gave in to release.
Energy crackled under my skin, hunger growing sharper with every frantic grind.
A possessive edge took over—I needed more.
Needed him marked, needed him at my mercy.
My grip tightened in his hair, tugging his head back just enough to expose his throat.
A flush spread over his skin, cheeks pink, breath ragged, eyes blown wide.
“Get up,” I commanded, my voice a low growl.
No room for doubt, not now. Richard’s chest rose and fell, the thick muscle beneath his flannel shuddering.
He obeyed, legs a little unsteady, letting me herd him down the hallway with my hands never leaving him.
The touch was never gentle—my palm at his back, my fingers digging into his bicep, steering him, owning every inch.
We barely made it through the bedroom door before I had him pressed flat to the wall.
The wood creaked under our combined weight, his back arching to meet me, hips rolling, searching for friction.
My knee slotted between his thighs, forcing them apart, grinding my thigh up into the hard line of his cock trapped in his jeans.
Every part of him was built, carved from years of labor—broad chest, shoulders wide enough to carry the world, arms heavy with muscle and dusted with silver hair.
The sight made my own cock throb, the promise of what I could do to him sending a savage thrill through my veins.
My hands worked at the buttons of his flannel, ripping them open, shoving the shirt off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.
Skin revealed beneath—tanned, strong, lightly furred with silver and black, nipples pebbling under the assault of cooler air and my hungry gaze.
A wicked grin tugged at my lips as I pressed my mouth to his collarbone, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, then licking away the sting.
His head fell back, offering himself up, a low groan rumbling out of his chest as I nipped down to one broad, sculpted pec, tongue flicking at his nipple, sucking it between my lips just to hear him curse.