10. Carrie
— ? —
Carrie
The first thing is warmth.
Then stubble, against my inner thigh.
Then.
“Oh.”
Tom’s mouth is already buried between my legs, his tongue flat and slow against my clit, and he’s making a sound low in his throat, a starved sound, the sound of a man who woke up hungry for me and couldn’t wait another minute.
“Good morning.” His voice hums against my pussy, and my back arches off the mattress.
“Tom, I haven’t even, I need to shower, you can’t just.”
“Can.” His hands pin my hips to the bed, gentle but firm. “Will.” He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, and I see white. “Want to.”
This is how it’s supposed to feel.
The realization crashes through me as I grip the sheets, as my thighs fall open wider, as I stop trying to form words and just feel.
Six years of marriage and Ulises never once woke me up this way.
Six years of scheduled intimacy, perfunctory kisses, have you finished yet, and I have an early meeting.
And here’s Tom, at whatever ungodly hour this is, his mouth working me slow and filthy, nowhere else he’d rather be.
He licks into me, tongue fucking me open, then drags back up to my clit and flicks it fast, and my hips buck off the bed. He pins them down with one forearm and holds me there and does it again, and again, until I’m soaking his chin.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against me. “So wet for me already. So greedy.” He pushes two fingers inside me and curls them. “This pretty pussy drips the second I touch it.”
I moan a sound that might be his name.
“That’s it. Let me hear you.” His tongue circles, teases, denies. Every time I get close, every time that peak starts to build, he backs off, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my inner thigh, letting me cool just enough to go desperate again.
He does it three times. Four. Winds me up and lets me down until I’m shaking, until I’m grinding up into his mouth with no shame left in me at all, one hand fisted in his hair, holding him exactly where I need him.
“Tom, please.”
“Please what?”
“I need.”
“Tell me.” He looks up the length of my body, his chin slick, his eyes dark with a heat that makes my whole body clench. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”
“I need to come. Please, let me come.”
“Then come. All over my mouth. Let me taste it.”
He seals his lips over my clit and pushes his fingers deep, curling into that spot, and gives me exactly what I’ve been begging for.
I come so hard I nearly black out, thighs clamping around his head, and he groans and doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking me through wave after wave until I’m pushing weakly at his shoulders, oversensitive and twitching and wrecked.
“Good girl.” He presses one last kiss to my swollen clit and climbs up my body, grinning, his mouth wet with me. “Good morning.”
I laugh breathlessly. “You’re insane.”
“Probably. Hungry?”
“After that? I’m starving.”
“Then let me cook you breakfast. And before you say anything.” He holds up a hand. “I’ve been practicing. The eggs will be only slightly terrible this time.”
The eggs are, in fact, still terrible.
I sit on the kitchen counter in his flannel shirt, just his flannel shirt, and watch him move around the small kitchen.
There’s a domestic ease to this that makes my chest ache.
The way he hums while he cooks. The way he keeps glancing over at me, not quite believing I’m real.
The way the morning light catches the sawdust still in his hair from yesterday.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re worth staring at.”
He grins. Sets down the spatula. Crosses to me.
“You know what else this counter is good for?”
“Tom.”
But he’s already hauling me off the counter and spinning me, already bending me over it, one hand flat between my shoulder blades pressing my cheek to the cool wood, the other shoving the flannel up over my hips.
“I want you again.” His voice has dropped, rough and dark, and he drags the thick length of his cock through my folds and notches it against me. “Right here. Just like this. That okay?”
“Yes.” I push back against him, greedy. “God, yes.”
He drives into me in one hard stroke, filling me to the hilt, and I cry out against the counter. There’s nothing slow left in him now. It’s rough and fast and claiming, his hips slamming into my ass, the wet slap of skin filling the kitchen, his fingers digging bruises into my hips.
He fists a hand in my hair and pulls, arching my back off the wood, changing the angle so he drives deeper, and I scrabble for the far edge of the counter to hold on.
“You’re mine now.” His voice is a growl at my nape. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, I’m yours, God, Tom, I’m yours.”
He reaches around and rubs my clit in tight, fast circles, never breaking rhythm, and the pleasure builds hot and brutal and fast. When I come this time it tears through me white and electric, clenching around his cock, and he groans and slams deep and follows me over, spilling hot inside me.
We stay there a long moment, breathing hard, his chest against my back, his lips at my shoulder.
“Breakfast is ruined,” I finally say.
“Worth it.”
I laugh, and he laughs too, and there’s a giddiness to this, a lightness I haven’t felt in years. The feeling of being wanted. The freedom of not having to perform.
He serves me the eggs anyway, and I eat them because they’re from him. We sit at the small kitchen table, legs tangled together underneath, talking about nothing, his work, the lake, a family of deer he’s been watching all summer.
And then I steal a piece of his bacon right off his plate.
“Hey!”
I’m already running. I don’t know what possesses me, some wild, reckless impulse I haven’t felt since I was a teenager, but I grab the bacon and bolt for the door, laughing.
“Oh, you’re going to pay for that.” His grin is wolfish as he stands. “I’ll give you a head start. Ten seconds.”
I don’t ask what happens if he catches me. I already know.
I run.
The grass is wet with morning dew, cold against my bare feet. The flannel barely covers me and I don’t care, I just run, toward the trees, toward the lake, toward a thing that feels close to freedom.
I hear him behind me. His footsteps, gaining. His laugh, dark and delighted.
He tackles me at the edge of the woods.
We go down together, rolling in the soft grass, and then he’s on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, his thigh wedged between mine.
“Caught you.”
“Took you long enough.”
“I was savoring the chase.” His free hand pushes the flannel up and finds me bare and already slick. “Look at you. Dripping in the grass. You liked being chased.”
“Tom.”
“Beg.”
“What?”
“Beg me for it.” Two fingers push into me, slow, his thumb rolling my clit. “Say please.”
“Make me.”
“Challenge accepted.” His eyes flash.
He works me with his fingers, ruthless and precise, thumb grinding my clit, and when I try to hold out he curls into that spot and I fold instantly, hips jerking off the ground, a broken sound torn out of me.
He doesn’t let me hide from it, doesn’t slow down, drives me straight up and over the edge.
“There it is.” He watches my face while I come apart on his hand, hungry for every second of it. “Gorgeous. Now beg me for my cock.”
“Please.” The word tears out of me, wrecked. “Please, Tom, I need you inside me.”
“Good girl.”
He shoves the last of our clothes out of the way and drives into me right there in the grass, both of us half-dressed and frantic, the morning sun hot on our skin. He fucks me hard and deep, my knees hooked over his arms, folding me in half, and I claw at his shoulders and take every brutal inch.
It doesn’t last long. We’re both too far gone. He grinds his thumb against my clit and orders me to come and I do, clenching around him, and he buries himself deep and spills into me with a groan that scatters the birds out of the trees.
“Not enough,” I gasp when I can talk again, tasting grass and salt and him. “Never enough.”
He laughs against my mouth and kisses me slow, both of us sticky and grass-stained and grinning, and when we finally lie still, tangled together under the open sky, a feeling I haven’t had in years settles over me.
Hope.
We stumble back to the cabin eventually, grass-stained and grinning, and Tom pulls me into the shower with him.
The water runs hot over both of us. He washes me slow, soap-slick hands moving over my breasts, my belly, between my legs, until washing turns into more, until I’m braced against the tile with his fingers buried in me and his mouth on the back of my neck.
“Again?” I laugh, breathless. “You’re insatiable.”
“Look what I’m working with.” He turns me to the wall, lifts one of my thighs, and drags his cock through the heat between my legs. “Can’t help it.”
He slides into me from behind, slow this time, no rush left in either of us, one arm banded around my waist to hold me up, the other hand spread flat and possessive low on my belly. He fucks me lazy and deep against the tile, the water pounding over both of us, his breath ragged in my ear.
It builds slow and rolls through me warm, a long easy wave with no edge to it, and I come with his name on my lips and his teeth grazing my shoulder.
He follows a few strokes later, groaning into my wet hair, holding me up when my knees give out.
By the time we’re clean and dressed it’s nearly noon, and I have never in my life felt so thoroughly, gloriously wrecked.
“I need to make some calls,” Tom says, toweling off his hair.
“Calls?”
“A PI I know. Old friend from college. If Ulises has been doing this for years.” His jaw tightens. “There’s going to be proof. Hotel receipts. Credit card statements. Texts. Photos. And we’re going to find all of it.”
“What do we do with the proof?”
“We serve him with divorce papers so airtight he can’t fight them.
We take everything he cares about, his reputation, his image, his precious control, and we burn it to the ground.
” Tom crosses to me, takes my face in his hands.
“He told you that you had nothing. That there was nothing out there for you. I’m going to prove him wrong. ”
I should be scared. I should be worried about what happens when Ulises finds out, when the fake amnesia collapses, when the whole elaborate lie comes crashing down.
But standing here with Tom, my body still humming from the morning, my heart still full of a feeling I have no safe word for, I don’t feel scared.
I feel ready.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s burn it all down.”