Chapter 44 Bellamy
BELLAMY
Rafe grinds the heel of his hand into my clit, applying a pressure that makes my eyes roll back in my head.
The room is a tangle of heat and breath and the promise of being caught.
I chase the friction with a grind of my hips, and when he plunges his fingers deep again, hitting that perfect spot, everything in me seizes up like a wire pulled too tight.
I want to cry out, to tell him not to stop, to beg for more, but the best I can do is bite down on his shoulder, muffling the sob that tears through me as I come—hard, sharp, with a violence that leaves my ears ringing.
His fingers slow inside me, but don't withdraw—just gentle, rolling pressure that makes my breath catch with each movement.
I bite down on my lower lip as another wave crashes through me, smaller but no less intense, my muscles clenching around him.
My fingers curl around him, stroking him tighter, as electricity dances up my spine and blooms behind my eyelids.
I trace the sensitive skin beneath his balls with my free hand, and his whole body goes taut as a bowstring.
“Baby,” he breathes against my neck, the word dissolving into a shudder as his hips jerk forward, hot pulses spilling over my knuckles, coating my palm with a slick heat that runs between my fingers.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, leaving an emptiness that makes my hips chase after his touch.
His gaze locks with mine in the darkness, a promise written in the slow curve of his mouth.
The wet gleam on his fingertips catches what little light filters through the curtains before they disappear between his lips.
His eyelids flutter closed, the hollow of his throat working as he swallows with a groan.
When his eyes open again, something primal flashes in them. The mattress shifts beneath me as his weight redistributes, his palms sliding under my hips. Cool air rushes across my thighs as fabric whispers down my legs. He follows my sleep shorts, settling between my thighs.
“What—”
“That one was for you,” he breathes against my inner thigh, his voice rough as sandpaper as his lips drag across my skin. “But this one? It’s mine, baby. And you’re going to give it to me.”
A low huff of disbelieving laughter puffs out of me, and I palm my face, shaking my head. “I don’t think I can come again.”
He curls his arm underneath my thigh, opening my legs to his gaze. “You can.”
I feel like I should be self-conscious, but strangely, I’m not. I pull my hand from my face and slide my fingers into his hair.
He positions his mouth right over my cunt, flicking his tongue over my clit once and looking at me from underneath his lashes. “Ride my face, baby.”
I want to tease him for saying that, but my last nerve endings are still fried, sending aftershocks through my thighs.
He nudges his nose into the crease where my hip meets my leg, soft and slow, and I gasp despite myself.
His hand curves up, fingers splaying against my lower belly, pinning me to the mattress with a gentle pressure that says I belong to him, at least for now.
The recliner creaks. But in the next moment, Rafe’s mouth is on me, and I forget how to form a single coherent thought.
His tongue licks up the wetness he left behind, tracing circles around my clit before latching on and sucking with a pressure that makes my back arch off the mattress.
My thighs clamp around his head, trapping him in place, and he moans into me—deep and guttural, his own need amplifying every desperate flick of his tongue.
He drags his mouth in lazy, devastating circles, and when I try to squirm away from the oversensitivity, his arm locks me down, holding me open and helpless while he works me.
My hips start moving without permission—a slow, searching grind that matches the rhythm of his tongue. The pleasure is sharp, too much, almost unbearable, and yet I want more.
I lift my head to tell him to stop, to beg him never to stop, but all that comes out is a low, broken whimper. “Rafe.”
“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs against my clit, his lips circling it before he sucks.
Seconds stretch into forever. My thighs shake. My fingers curl into his hair as the pressure builds from somewhere deep in my spine, radiating outward. My fingers twist in the cotton beneath me, knuckles straining white as sounds I don't recognize tear from my throat.
Sweat-damp hair clings to my skin, and I twist my head against the pillow, desperate to free myself from the sticky strands. My other hand cups the weight of my breast, thumb circling my nipple.
When I open my eyes, blue-gray ice meets mine across the room. My breath catches—a hiccup of shock—but my hips keep rolling against Rafe's mouth, my body refusing to surrender what it's chasing.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine, electric and unstoppable, and I bite my lip to keep from begging Bishop to keep watching.
The rhythm falters. His mouth slows to a maddening crawl, each languid stroke a deliberate tease that makes my hips buck in frustration.
My fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him back to where I need him most. A low vibration rumbles against my sensitive flesh—he's laughing, the bastard—as his tongue traces feather-light circles that dance just shy of where I'm aching.
When his fingers withdraw, I nearly whimper at the loss until his tongue plunges deep, hot and insistent, the sudden fullness making my back arch off the mattress.
A gasp catches in my throat. My eyelids flutter, heavy with the urge to close, but I force them open, locking onto Bishop across the room.
The leather creaks beneath his grip. Moonlight catches the ridges of his knuckles—white, strained, betraying what his carefully composed face tries to hide.
His spine hasn't touched the backrest in minutes.
The air between us vibrates with something unspoken.
My fingers find the hem of my tank top, and I slowly drag the cotton upward, cool air kissing newly exposed skin.
Bishop's pupils dilate instantly, his chest rising with a sharp, audible inhale that sends heat spiraling through me.
My palm slides over my breast, fingers finding my nipple just as Rafe's tongue flicks harder, making my back arch off the mattress. I let my head drop back into the pillow, the sound of my own breathing ragged in my ears. Each time I roll my nipple between my fingers, a fresh wave of heat flushes across my chest, down my belly, pooling where Rafe’s tongue owns me.
I can feel every muscle in my body pull taut, every nerve ending tuned to the smallest flicker of sensation.
I force my eyes to stay open, to pin Bishop in place with my gaze, daring him to look away before I do.
He doesn’t. Not for a single heartbeat. Rafe’s tongue works faster, the pressure unrelenting as he laps at my clit, the rough stubble of his jaw scraping my thigh as he chases every sound that leaves me.
I dig my nails into his scalp, holding him there, needing more, needing everything.
The pressure behind my clit coils so tight it feels like a rubber band stretched to breaking.
I can’t stop the noises anymore—they tumble out of me, desperate and pleading, filling the small room until there’s nothing left but sensation.
I squeeze my thighs around his head as the first tremor hits, a white-hot pulse that shatters the air between us.
The world narrows, and time stretches.
My hips jerk, riding the wave, my muscles clenching around his fingers and tongue. He doesn’t stop. He licks me through the aftershocks, his lips gentle now, slow, savoring every tremor. I want to shove him off, to keep him forever, to never let him go.
I fall limp, boneless, the aftermath making my limbs feel hollow and too light. Rafe presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh—gentle, almost reverent—before crawling up the bed and hovering over me.
He drags his tongue slowly across his bottom lip, leaving a sheen behind.
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he whispers, “Fucking delicious,” the words vibrating against my mouth before his lips crash down.
The salt-musk taste of my own arousal lingers on his tongue as it slides against mine.
My hips shift involuntarily beneath him.
He breaks away, his breath hot against my cheek, and rolls, pulling me with him until my spine presses flush against the damp heat of his chest. My limbs feel liquid, disconnected, as if I'm floating an inch above the mattress.
Metal scrapes against wood—a single, sharp sound from the corner. My stomach drops. The hair on my arms rises as Bishop's presence materializes like a physical weight in the room. Heat floods my face, but my eyes remain fixed on his.
Bishop’s silhouette is carved sharp against the darkness, every muscle locked in a line of tension from jaw to fists. He’s not sitting. Not anymore. He’s standing, watching me like he’s daring the universe to look away first.
My pulse thunders in my ears, but I’m hyperaware of everything: the slick heat of Rafe’s body pressed behind me, the raw ache between my thighs, the way the sheet has slipped down to bare my chest, nipples tight and flushed in the cooled air. I don’t cover myself. I don’t look away.
But to my utter surprise, he doesn't say anything.
His jaw works silently, a muscle twitching beneath the shadow of stubble.
I don't know how long we look at one another in the silence, letting the soft twilight bleed into early morning, the room gradually shifting from silver-blue to the color of weak tea.
My skin prickles with awareness, every breath between us charged like the air before lightning strikes.
Sleep doesn't come.
It never does when something this dangerous has already begun, when the line you've crossed feels like stepping off a cliff with your eyes wide open.