Chapter 43 Bellamy
BELLAMY
Something pulls me from sleep—a ghost of pressure along my skin.
My eyelids remain heavy, but my nerve endings spark to life.
The pad of Rafe's index finger draws invisible patterns up the tender inside of my forearm, each swirl leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
His touch barely disturbs the fine hairs there, yet heat blooms beneath my skin.
My breath wants to catch, my muscles want to twitch, but I keep myself statue-still, pulse thudding in my throat as I hover in that liminal space between consciousness and surrender.
A thin blade of silver cuts across the sheets where the curtains don't quite meet.
When I shift, the mattress protests with a soft groan that freezes Rafe's fingertip mid-circle against my skin.
One-one-thousand, two—then his touch resumes its path.
In the half-light, his pupils have swallowed most of the color in his eyes.
He hasn't looked away once, not even to blink, his gaze steady beneath heavy lids while his thumb traces the inside of my wrist where my pulse hammers against thin skin.
My breath catches as his eyes meet mine in the half-light. The corners of his mouth lift slightly, not quite a smile but something more private. His pupils are wide and dark, his breathing steady and unhurried while mine comes quick and shallow.
When I whisper, my voice barely disturbs the air between us. “Can't sleep?”
One slow shake of his head, his gaze never leaving mine. The mattress dips and creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, erasing inches between us until the heat of his skin radiates against my arm, my shoulder, my side.
“I hope I didn't keep you up,” I murmur.
His lips part slightly before he shakes his head again, the movement barely perceptible against the pillow.
His fingers slide higher, tracing the hollow where my shoulder meets my neck, then drifting across my collarbone like he's memorizing me by touch.
The room narrows to just that point of contact—warm fingertips against my skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.
My lungs forget how to work properly, my inhale catching halfway.
“I—” The word escapes on a whisper, unfinished.
He hums, the sound vibrating low in his chest, and his hand continues its journey—up the column of my throat where my pulse hammers against his palm, then into my hair. His fingers tangle in the strands, grip tightening just enough that my chin lifts, exposing my throat to the cool night air.
My lips part. Something between a gasp and a sigh escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. My head tilts back instinctively.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, the words warm against the corner of my mouth.
I bridge the paper-thin distance between us, my lips meeting his with a softness that makes my chest ache.
His mouth yields, then claims—a gentle give and take.
His tongue traces my lower lip, asking rather than demanding, and I open to him with a sigh that dissolves into the dark.
My fingers drift up, finding the warm skin where his hairline meets his neck, curling into the soft strands there as the room spins slowly around us.
His fingers thread through my hair, cradling the curve of my skull as his mouth moves against mine—slow, deliberate.
His tongue dips inside my mouth with unhurried precision.
He tastes like mint and something darker beneath.
My hand finds the warm skin at his nape, fingers curling into the soft hair there, neither pulling him closer nor holding him in place—just anchoring myself as the room tilts slightly on its axis.
Minutes stretch, contract, disappear entirely as oxygen becomes secondary to the gentle pressure of his bottom lip between my teeth, the soft exhale that follows.
The recliner creaks—a single, sharp protest of wood against metal.
My lips tear from Rafe's, my spine going rigid. Every muscle in my body freezes mid-breath as I strain to hear beyond the thundering in my chest. My gaze darts past his shoulder toward the bathroom, but the chair sits in shadows behind me. Five feet away. Maybe less. I can’t see it.
The white noise machine hums its steady static. Seconds stretch. Nothing moves.
My fingers still curl into Rafe's hair, refusing to let go even as my brain screams to pull back. His breath warms my collarbone in shallow puffs. Beneath my palm, his heartbeat matches the wild rhythm of mine.
My lips part, the words forming—words about stopping, about breathing, about sleeping.
We shouldn’t.
We can’t.
But fuck do I want to.
But words dissolve when his fingers curl tighter in my hair, the slight pressure sending electricity down my spine.
His mouth grazes the pulse point at my neck, warm breath raising goosebumps across my skin.
He traces a path with his lips to the shell of my ear, and the room shrinks to just that point of contact.
“How quiet can you be, baby?“ The words vibrate against my skin, low and rough.
My skin prickles into tiny peaks, a wave starting at my neck and cascading down to my ankles before my mind fully registers what he's asking. I can only manage a jerky nod, my throat too dry for words.
His lips curve against that tender spot behind my ear, vibrating slightly with a low sound that's more felt than heard. “Let's find out,” he whispers, each syllable a warm puff against my skin.
His fingers loosen their grip in my hair, trailing electricity as they trace my jawline, my collarbone, the curve where my breast begins.
The mattress shifts beneath me as he guides me onto my back, his palm skimming over the thin cotton of my tank, down across my stomach, until his hand hovers—a furnace of heat—just above the waistband of my shorts.
A sound escapes me when his palm finally settles against the cotton between my legs—not quite a gasp, something more primal—but his mouth captures it, lips sealing over mine.
Heat radiates through the thin fabric, his hand so still it almost burns.
My hips rise without permission, seeking more pressure, more friction.
His fingers find the edge of my shorts against my inner thigh, hesitating for just a heartbeat before slipping beneath.
When he discovers nothing but bare skin, his chest expands against mine in a sudden, sharp inhale. I can't help the smile that forms against his mouth, my tongue darting out to trace the corner of his lips where they've parted in surprise.
His touch drifts lower, tracing the same whisper-soft path across places that make my breath stutter.
I catch his lower lip between my teeth, not thinking, just feeling.
The sound that escapes him vibrates against my mouth as his body shifts, pressing closer.
One finger slips inside where I'm already slick and waiting, then another joins it, stretching and filling.
His thumb just barely brushes my clit. The almost-contact is more maddening than any direct touch could be.
My breath hitches, catches, breaks into fragments against his mouth. My hips rise to meet his hand of their own accord, seeking more pressure where he barely gives it. His lips curve upward against my neck, eyes gleaming in the darkness as he watches me chase what he deliberately withholds.
Two can play. I slide my palm down the taut plane of his stomach, feeling the muscles contract beneath my touch.
When my fingers find him through the thin fabric of his shorts, his exhale turns sharp, a hiss between clenched teeth that vibrates against my collarbone.
The sound travels straight through me. I slip beneath the elastic waistband, past nothing but skin, until my fingers close around his cock.
“Jesus Christ.” It slips out like a whispered curse.
He fills my hand completely—impossibly thick and hard, yet silken against my palm.
My fingers close around him, and a flutter of nervous anticipation curls low in my belly.
When I tighten my grip experimentally, he pulses against my touch, a full-body shudder traveling through him that ends with a sound caught halfway between pleasure and surrender.
I capture it with my mouth, stealing the vibration of his need directly from his lips.
A creak startles me into awareness. A reminder that we're not alone in this room. For one suspended heartbeat, I almost care. Then his fingers curl inside me, and rational thought dissolves like sugar in hot water.
When I start stroking him, he makes a sound I've never heard before—something primal that vibrates against my throat.
My body moves on pure instinct. I roll onto my side, throwing my leg over his hip in a silent invitation.
The new angle changes everything. My leg hooks him closer, locking the heat of him against me, and his hand moves in rhythm with the slow, rolling grind of my hips.
He chases the movement like a riptide, the two of us caught in a loop of silent, desperate give and take.
A dull thud from across the room cuts through my haze. I freeze, heart pounding, and angle my head just enough to glimpse Bishop’s silhouette slouched in the recliner, face shadowed and unmoving. He doesn’t stir, but his breathing has changed.
“Come back to me.” Rafe presses the pad of his thumb against my clit in slow, deliberate circles.
The sudden pressure sends electricity arcing through my limbs, dragging my focus back to him with a gasp caught behind my teeth.
“I’m right here.” My fingers drift lower, tracing the delicate skin behind his balls before cupping the weight of them in my palm.
“Mm.” His whole body tenses, a tremor running through his thighs as I stroke upward with a twist of my wrist while my fingertips dance over that sensitive spot.
“Baby, fuck,” he groans into my mouth. His breath stutters against my neck.
I catch his bottom lip between my teeth, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. My wrist flicks faster, twisting on each upstroke. “I want to feel you come.”
Rafe's eyes are ink in the dimness, locked on mine, daring me to keep going.
His body is all taut lines and heat, the kind of restraint that only makes me want to push further.
Every slick, slow pull of my hand over his cock draws another sound from him—sometimes a strangled gasp, sometimes a curse, always quiet, always for me.
Under the thin sheet, the muscles in his stomach tense and relax, his hips barely rocking in time with my strokes.
He keeps his hand between my legs, fingers spreading me open, mapping every gasping reaction as I move against him.
“Not before you.”