Chapter 21 #2
“Let me see.” I sit up slightly, gently taking her foot in my hands.
“Carter, it’s fine—”
“I’m inspecting my handiwork. I did nurse you back to health after all. I have a vested interest in your ankle’s recovery.”
She laughs. “Alright.”
I examine it carefully—the bruising has faded to a yellowish-green, and the swelling really is almost gone. Without thinking, I press a soft kiss to her ankle bone.
She squeals and tries to yank her foot away. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing it better,” I say innocently, holding on.
“That’s not—” She’s giggling now, squirming. “Carter, that’s my foot!”
“I’m aware.” I press another kiss, this time to her arch, watching her face scrunch up in that way I love. “What? I can’t appreciate all of you?”
“My feet are not—” She’s laughing too hard to finish the sentence.
“Your feet are attached to you, therefore, I like them.” I trail kisses up from her ankle toward her calf. “In fact, I plan to kiss every single part of you eventually. Might take a while. If I’m thorough.”
“You’re insane.”
I look up at her, grinning. “Not my fault you have very cute feet.”
“I do not have cute feet. Nobody has cute feet.”
“You do. Look at these toes. Perfect. Ten out of ten.” I wiggle her foot gently, and she laughs again, trying to pull away.
“You’re so weird!”
“Weird about you,” I correct, releasing her foot and pulling her back against my chest. “There’s a difference.”
She settles into me, still shaking her head. “For the record, you don’t have to kiss my feet.”
“What if I want to?”
“Then you’re a weirdo, and I’m questioning my decision to lie here with you.”
She tips her head back to look at me, and her eyes are so soft it makes my chest ache.
I lean down to kiss her properly.
She laughs against my mouth. “Was the foot kissing all a ploy?”
“Totally.”
“You know what?” I move closer, my hand sliding up her thigh. “I think we need to celebrate your big discovery.”
Her eyebrows lift. “We already sent the email to Bam.”
“I wasn’t thinking about emailing.” I’m hovering over her now, watching her pupils dilate as I lower my weight onto my forearms, caging her between them. “I was thinking maybe you need a break from all that... hard work.”
She tries to look serious, but her lips twitch. “I don’t know. We have a lot more data to process.”
“Do we?” I move my hand higher, tracing the waistband of her leggings. “Because it looked to me like we were pretty much done.”
“There’s always more analysis to do,” she says primly, but her breath catches when my fingers slip under her shirt.
“Analysis can wait.” I lower my mouth to her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. “I have more pressing research to conduct.”
“What kind of research?” she asks, and the breathless catch in her voice sends heat coursing through me.
“I need to understand exactly how many ways I can make you come.” I press my lips to her collarbone, feeling her skin heat beneath my mouth. “We can make a graph out of the data.”
She laughs, and the sound vibrates against my lips. “That sounds like a very thorough study.”
“I’m nothing if not methodical.” My hand slides beneath her leggings, finding her already wet through her underwear. “Look at you. All this excitement over geothermal gradients?”
“Not exactly.” She gasps as my fingers trace her through the thin fabric.
I tug at her leggings, and she lifts her hips to help me slide them down. The sight of her—flushed and wanting on my sheets—makes my mouth go dry.
“God, you’re beautiful.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “Especially when you’re talking about acid boundaries and getting all excited about rocks.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile is soft. “You don’t care about the rocks.”
“I care about you caring about them.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. “I care about the way your eyes light up when you’re figuring something out. I care about how fucking brilliant you are.”
Her hands find my hair as I settle between her legs, and the gentle tug sends electricity down my spine.
I lower my head, tasting her through the cotton of her underwear. The moan that escapes her makes me grip her thighs tighter, anchoring us both.
“Carter…” My name in her mouth is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.
I hook my fingers in her underwear, sliding them down her legs. She’s exposed to me now—all of her—and I take a moment just to look. To appreciate. To memorize.
“Stop staring,” she whispers, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
“Can’t help it.” I kiss her inner thigh, feeling her tremble beneath my lips. “You’re kind of perfect.”
Before she can argue, I put my mouth on her. The taste of her floods my senses—salt and sweet and Rhi—and I lose myself in it. In her. In the way her back arches off the bed when I find that perfect spot with my tongue.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, guiding me where she wants me. I follow willingly, eagerly, learning the language of her body. What makes her gasp. What makes her thighs shake. What makes her whisper my name like a prayer.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and her reaction is immediate. Her hips buck against my face, her breathing ragged.
“Carter—I’m—” She can’t finish the sentence, but I understand.
I don’t let up.
I keep up the rhythm, focusing entirely on her pleasure, her body, the way she responds to my touch. When she comes against my mouth, her entire body tenses, then trembles, her back arching off the bed as she cries out my name.
But I’m not done with her yet.
I slow my movements, giving her a moment to breathe as the aftershocks roll through her. Her eyes are half-closed, unfocused, her chest rising and falling rapidly. God, she’s beautiful like this—flushed and satisfied, her hair a wild tangle against my pillows.
“Carter,” she murmurs, reaching for me.
I slide up her body, kissing a path along her stomach, pushing her shirt up as I go. “I’m not finished with you yet, darling,” I tell her, my voice rough with wanting her. “I want to see if I can make you come again. Just with my fingers this time.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t protest when I slide my hand between her legs again. She’s impossibly wet now, sensitive from her first orgasm, and she gasps when I circle her clit with my thumb.
“Too much?” I ask, ready to stop if she needs me to.
“No.” She breathes, her hips already moving against my hand. “Don’t stop.”
I push two fingers inside her again, curling them the way I’ve learned she likes, and she moans—a sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Take off your shirt,” I whisper against her ear, my fingers still moving inside her. “I want to see all of you.”
She nods, breathless, and reaches down to pull her t-shirt over her head. The movement forces her to arch her back, and I have to pause, momentarily stunned by the sight of her—flushed skin, simple black bra, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“You too,” she says, tugging at the hem of my shirt.
I withdraw my hand reluctantly, pulling my shirt off before returning to her. My fingers find her again as I reach behind her with my other hand, unhooking her bra with practiced ease. The straps fall away, and I lower my head to take one perfect nipple into my mouth.
She gasps, arching into me, her hands flying to my hair. The sound she makes—half moan, half my name—sends heat straight through me. I circle my tongue around her nipple, feeling it harden against my mouth, while my fingers resume their rhythm between her legs.
“Carter.” Her body tenses beneath me. “Oh my god.”
I switch to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, sucking gently and then grazing it with my teeth. The combination makes her gasp, her back arching off the bed.
“I love the sounds you make,” I murmur against her skin. “I love knowing I’m the one making you feel this way.”
She’s close again—I can feel it in the way her body tightens around my fingers, in the shallow breaths she’s taking, in the flush spreading across her chest. I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her whole body tremble.
“Look at me,” I tell her, and her eyes flutter open, dark and hazy with desire. “I want to see you when you come.”
Her eyes lock with mine, and there’s something so intensely intimate about it that my chest aches. I increase the pressure of my thumb against her clit, keeping the rhythm steady, and watch as her expression changes—her lips parting, her eyes widening slightly.
When she comes this time, it’s with a broken cry that might be my name, her eyes never leaving mine until the very last moment when they close involuntarily. Her body clenches around my fingers, and I work her through it, slowing my movements as she comes down.
I withdraw my hand gently and move up to kiss her, letting her taste herself on my lips. She kisses me back lazily.
Rhiannon’s petite, curvy frame is relaxed on the sheets, her dark hair a messy halo around her flushed face. Her expression is peaceful and content, the usual tension in her shoulders absent.
I prop myself up on one elbow, watching her breathe. Something protective and tender expands in my chest as her eyes flutter closed. She looks younger like this, all the scholarly intensity wiped away, replaced by this soft, vulnerable version that few people get to see.
“You should sleep,” I whisper, brushing hair from her forehead.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, already drifting. “But you didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about me.” I pull the comforter up over her bare shoulders. “Rest.”
She makes a small noise of protest, but doesn’t open her eyes. Within moments, her breathing deepens, her body completely surrendering to exhaustion.
I remain beside her for a few minutes, just watching. The stress of confronting Matthew, the intensity of their data breakthrough, the emotional rollercoaster of the past week—it’s all caught up with her. She deserves this rest.
I carefully extricate myself from the bed, wincing at my painfully hard erection straining against my boxers. Shower time.
I slip into the bathroom, stepping under the hot spray of water, letting it cascade over my tense shoulders. My mind replays the image of Rhi sprawled across my bed, her face flushed with pleasure.
The water beats down as I take myself in hand, closing my eyes and remembering the sounds she made, the way her body responded. It doesn’t take long before I’m leaning against the shower wall, breathing hard, watching evidence of my release spiral down the drain.
After drying off, I pull on clean boxers and a t-shirt, then quietly slip back into bed beside her. She doesn’t wake, just instinctively curls against my side, seeking warmth. I kiss her forehead and settle in, one arm wrapped around her shoulders.
That night, I dream about Dominic for the first time in months.
But this time, it’s not a nightmare. Not the crash, not the hospital, not any of the terrible things.
It’s a memory. A real one.
We’re in the Alpha Phi kitchen, and he’s teaching me how to make quesadillas—which are really just cheese between tortillas, but he acts like it’s haute cuisine. I’m complaining that I’d rather get take out, and he’s laughing, telling me I’m being dramatic.
“You’re going to be fine, little bro,” dream-Dominic says. “You’re always fine. You just don’t believe it yet.”
“What if I’m not, though?”
“Then you figure it out. That’s what we do.” He flips the quesadilla with unnecessary flair. “Besides, you’ve got people. Jake, the guys, that cute girl you won’t stop talking about—”
“I don’t talk about her that much.”
“Dude, you talk about her constantly. It’s very cute. Very unlike you.” He grins. “I like it. You should keep her.”
“I’m going to.”
“Good.” He slides the quesadilla onto a plate and hands it to me. “And, Carter? Stop hiding. You’re allowed to be happy. Even without me.”
“That feels wrong.”
“I know. But it’s not.” His expression goes serious. “Go to the party. Hang out with your friends. Live your life. That’s what I’d want.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”