Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Ky
He says my name like it’s a promise…and a warning.
“What?” I ask innocently, tapping my fingers on the hard plane of his lower abs.
This is so the wrong time for this but also…maybe it’s the right time.
To get this man who looks after everyone but himself to give up control.
To accept some care in return.
To touch him as I’ve dreamed of, to make him feel good, to continue smoothing down the roughened edges of pain inside me, transforming them from something barbed and ugly into…
More.
Beauty and hope.
And moving forward with someone who’s…
Important and in my heart and who…I’m falling for.
No.
Have fallen for.
“We should get some rest,” he rasps.
“We will.” I arch into him, dragging my leg over the hard jut of his erection.
He hisses out a breath, palm clamping down onto my thigh, staying my movements, his skin scorching my flesh through the fabric of my pajamas. “Kylie. Baby. You’ve had a long weekend, a long day.”
“So have you.”
“Exactly,” he rasps. “So we should go to bed.”
“Mmm.” I slip my fingertips just under the waistband of his sweats and he jerks. “Maybe we should.”
“Right. Good that you agree.”
He shifts restlessly. “Baby, you need to move your hand.”
“Okay.”
I shove it fully into his sweats, wrapping my fingers around him.
“So hard,” I murmur, shifting my leg so I have room.
And maybe it’s been a long time since I’ve touched a man like this, maybe even before I was raped, it was only a handful of times I did it, and maybe even then it was fumbling and teenage hormones and feeling strange and awkward and unwieldy.
There’s nothing awkward about this.
Nothing strange and fumbling.
Like everything with Colt from that night in my kitchen a couple of weeks ago, it feels natural.
Normal.
Easy.
And sexy as hell.
“Kylie.” My name is barely discernible, his voice like so much sandpaper. “Baby—”
I stroke my hand up.
“Fuck!”
His hips hitch, pushing the hard length of him into my hand.
So I go down and back up, only this time I feel a bead of moisture hit the tops of my fingers, and it’s so intriguing, so tempting, I can’t stop myself from sliding my thumb over it.
He groans as I smooth it into his skin.
I want to taste it, want it on my tongue and down my throat, but even as that erotic image flashes through my mind I know I’m not ready for that.
Not quite yet.
So, I keep my hand moving, stroking up and down, up and down, struck by the beauty of his face as I touch him. His neck is arched, the cords on his throat standing out in sharp relief, and the sheen of sweat on his skin makes my mouth water.
I want to taste him there too, savor the tang of the salt on my tongue.
And I can.
So…I do.
Continuing to stroke him as I bend and drag the tip of my tongue over his neck, the salty burst of flavor exploding through my taste buds.
I moan softly, press my legs together, ignoring the ache there, the way moisture is gathering.
But not ignoring that touching him is turning me on, that there’s no fear, that there’s only…
Colt and me.
Tonight. Tomorrow. For—
I stop the word from sliding through my mind. Too soon. Too much knowledge in the world and all the ways life can go wrong.
Love can go wrong.
My fingers tighten as I slam the lid on that too.
“Kylie!” he groans, hips jerking again.
And then I’m not thinking about words I’m feeling but shouldn’t think, words that are terrifying and wonderful…
I’m thinking about Colt and how he reacts to my touch.
“Like this?” I ask, tightening again as I pump.
“Harder.” His hand covers mine, squeezing far more fiercely than I would have ever dared, and we stroke him together, stroke him until his neck arches further and his hips thrust up into our touch and his breaths come in a staccato tattoo.
And all the while, the moisture between my legs grows, the ache in my belly swells.
“Stop,” he rasps.
I do.
Despite the ache, the need, I would never not stop if someone asked.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask softly, noting his dilated eyes, the sweat on his forehead.
He sucks in a breath, tugs at my hand. “In the best fucking way, baby.”
I shudder, have to swallow down my moan. “Then why—?”
“Because I’m going to come, Teach.”
“Why is that a bad thing?” I clench harder, eliciting another groan from him. “I want you to come.”
Closing his eyes again, he groans. “I’m trying to be good, baby. Trying to—”
“Right.” I tug at his sweats, freeing the hard length of him. “No more of that.”
And then I wrap my hand around his cock and give him what he gave me.
Pleasure.
A tight fist. Hard strokes. And not stopping until—
“Kylie!”
He comes apart, the hot jets of his cum splashing onto his stomach, covering my fingers. It’s instinct—or maybe temptation—to lift my hand, to flick my tongue over the evidence of his pleasure, but it’s not until he growls that I realize he’s watching me.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
His eyes slide to my hand.
“I like it.” I drag my tongue over the back, the sharp, salty tang even more intoxicating than his sweat. “A lot.”
Another growl.
Then he’s grabbing the box of tissues from his nightstand, grabbing a wad of them and mopping up his stomach, my fingers.
He tosses them to the side, plants a palm in the middle of my chest and topples me backward onto the mattress.
“Your shoulder!”
“Someone could drop a nuke on me right now and I wouldn’t feel a thing.
” He kisses me—no, he devours my mouth in a flurry of lips and teeth and tongue.
A tug has my pajamas down around my ankles.
Another has them flying to the side. “Open for me,” he says, sliding his palm down my belly, over the top of my pussy, pressing lightly.
I shudder.
“Spread your legs, baby,” he coaxes.
Resisting the urge to do exactly that, to take when I was trying only to give, I shake my head, press my thighs together. “I was trying to make you feel good.”
“Congrats.” A wicked smile. “Mission accomplished.”
A nip to my bottom lip before I can reply, those glorious fingers stroking lightly over my labia.
“Now,” he growls. “Spread your fucking legs, Teach.”