Chapter 23 #2
“You are infuriating, you know that,” he says in my ear. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
“I’m safe enough,” I say breathlessly. “I’d rather you fuck me, if that’s an option.”
His hands tighten on me involuntarily and when he leans back to search my face, his pupils are blown wide.
Yeah. My smile might be a little too self-satisfied at that moment. I suspect he will make me pay for it in a way that we’ll both enjoy.
Taking my hand, he leads me silently away from the living room, down the hall to the closed door of his bedroom.
The space is dominated by an oversized bed, king for sure. Possibly whatever is larger than that. And it’s not just a mattress on the floor, but an actual bed with a wooden frame. The polished headboard and footboard gleam in a curling scroll shape.
The whole thing barely fits in here. And what little space is left has been taken over by books.
Psychology texts, random nonfiction titles on persistence, deep work, and the brain.
A few novels scattered in the mix, including The Hobbit by Tolkien, The Stranger by Camus, and The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.
Is there anything sexier than a guy who reads? If so, I haven’t found it.
Carter releases my hand to stroll toward the bed and prop himself up on the footboard, watching me.
I start to follow him, but he holds his hand up, stopping me in place.
“Your back. Let me see it.” He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a stern look.
I scowl at him. If he’s thinking that he’s going to decide that I’m too injured, he has another think coming.
My instinct is to argue, but then a better idea dawns.
Instead of turning my back and lifting my sweatshirt, I reach down and pull the whole thing off over my head.
While facing him.
I put my hand on my hip in challenge, the cool air skating across my bare breasts, nipples taut. Bras haven’t exactly been a priority in the last couple of days, when I’ve lost access to my entire wardrobe. Plus, with layers of coats, sweaters, sweatshirts, they weren’t really necessary.
And I’ve never been more grateful. I’ve felt Carter’s hands on me, his mouth, but I never realized how electrifying his attention on my skin would feel.
His gaze pours over me, like he wants to memorize every curve. Everything tightens under his focus, as if my body knows what’s coming, anticipating the hot suction of his mouth, the talented pinch of his fingers.
His throat works audibly. “Turn around,” he says, voice raw and hoarse.
“Come over here, and make me,” I offer. It’s always this way between us, the push and pull of control, of power. It’s just usually a little more contained, restrained by time and location.
Heat flares in his eyes. He gets up and closes the distance between us, but instead of touching me, turning me away from him, he steps around to view my back.
“Jocasta. You’re all scraped up,” he says, in reprimand.
I shiver. I don’t care.
“The bark pattern is imprinted in your bruise, but it’s fading already.” His voice holds a mix of awe and frustration. He traces a finger lightly down my spine, and I gasp at the feather-touch.
His hands slip around my middle before sliding up just under my breasts. The heat of his hands radiates into my ribs, and I want to squirm to move his touch where I need it to be. “Can you be quiet?” he asks. “My neighbors are very touchy about the noise.”
Fuck yes. How does he know exactly what to say? I nod fervently, frantically.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. He places an open-mouthed kiss on my shoulder, his hands rising to cup my breasts.
I swallow the moan caught in my throat. I promised to be quiet, and I know him—and our power struggles—well enough to know he will back off if I don’t, even if it punishes both of us.
He catches my nipples between the knuckles of his first and second fingers, closing the gap to pinch tightly, even as his thumbs stroke the side of my breasts. “So soft. I want to taste. Pull you into my mouth and hear you try not to scream for more.”
I push my hips back into him, rubbing against him, rigid beneath the fly of his jeans.
The tiny groan that escapes him is the only sign I’m getting to him. “That’s not helpful, Jocasta.”
“Or very helpful,” I point out, trying to match his calm and failing desperately.
“I thought you agreed you could be quiet,” he scolds gently. He lifts my arms up, placing my hands on my head. “Does this hurt your back?”
I shake my head.
“Good. Leave them there.” He ducks his head down at my right side, his hand lifting my breast to his questing mouth.
The fabric of his shirt teases my bare skin, and my eyes snap shut as he trails hot kisses along the side of my breast.
“I love the way you taste, the way you smell. It haunts me. Sometimes at night, I wake up and think your scent is on my pillow.”
“Laundry detergent?” I manage.
“Troublesome,” Carter counters. He licks across my nipple, and I moan. Then he pulls it into his mouth and sucks, his tongue working against my flesh. His fingers press my breast against his lips so he can take more in, and that sensation becomes the center of my universe.
He lifts his head, releasing my nipple with a pop. “Too much?” he asks.
“N … no.” My hands are twisting tight in my own hair, just for something to hang on to.
His hand dips easily beneath the waist of my leggings, sliding down to stroke between my legs. He grunts in satisfaction. “Wet already.” His fingers retreat slightly to pet my clit through the front panel of my panties.
I squirm in his grasp, trying to push forward for more friction.
But he holds me still, until his fingers work along the side and then beneath the fabric.
He trails his fingertips from my clit to my opening, teasing with a light touch.
“You feel that? So soft, so wet.” He sinks two fingers inside, and I gasp at the stretch. “I love feeling you open up. Getting ready for me.”
He pushes into me, in and out, for a few strokes. Then he slides his whole hand beneath my panties and centers his palm over me, so it rubs against my clit with every thrust of his fingers.
I push my hips back into his hand, and the rhythm takes over, until the first flutters move in me. I’m close.
I let go of my hair and reach back to grasp his shoulders, his shirt. “More.”
But he slows, pulling out, departing with a few slippery caresses.
“No, no,” I protest. I turn his arms, yanking ineffectively at the buttons on his shirt with shaking hands. He takes over for me, brushing my hands away when it’s clear I’m not making much progress.
But that just leaves me to tug at the button on his jeans. His breath catches and his hands go still on his shirt.
I slide my hand between the zipper and his erection, stroking the heat and hardness of him with one hand while I open the front of his jeans with the other.
Jaw tight, he thrusts hard into my hand, the head of him pushing through the opening in his black boxer briefs. His control is slipping.
With visible effort, he stops, extricating himself from my grasp.
“Turn. Hands,” he grits out. He guides me to the footboard, placing my hands on the smooth wood.
It feels good to surrender control for a moment, to let someone else tell me what to do. My head is always so full of what I should do, what I shouldn’t, am I doing the wrong thing, taking too much, not enough.
But now … now there’s nothing but silence in my head, and the relief is immense.
He tugs at the waistband of my leggings. Leggings may be sexy to wear, but they are not sexy to get into—or out of, as the case may be.
But Carter makes it hot, slowly peeling the fabric down my legs, kissing every inch of exposed skin, which only makes the empty ache in me pulse harder.
He helps me step out of them, guiding me one leg at a time. Leaving me standing there in drenched panties and nothing else.
When he stands, he taps the inside of my thigh, encouraging me to part my legs for him. And I do, knees trembling with need.
Fabric rustles behind me, and then the heat of his body presses against me and he kisses down my back, pulling my hips into him.
His cock slides between my legs, hot skin catching and stuttering on the damp fabric of my panties. “That works for you?”
“Yes, but just now please,” I beg.
A rough noise emerges from his throat. “I mean, it doesn’t hurt your back,” he says tightly.
“Yes, no, it doesn’t hurt,” I babble.
The warmth of him vanishes, and a second later, I hear the rattle and thump of a drawer opening and closing, followed by the crinkle of a condom wrapper.
Oh, thank God. I have a birth control implant in my arm, but I am not taking chances, not with my heritage.
Carter helps me step out of my panties. Then he steadies me with one hand on my back and slips his fingers inside me, taking moisture from me to spread on himself.
It is unbearably, torturously sexy.
Then, finally, finally, he reaches down, fingers spreading me open for his latex-wrapped cock.
The thick head presses into me, slow pressure that stings a little at this angle without more moisture, and yet I only crave more.
Dipping my head, I angle my hips upward, and breath escapes him in a sharp hiss.
I’ve had him in my hand, in my mouth before, but this is tighter, more intense. Every move pulls at both of us.
On my tiptoes, I push back against him, taking him deeper, and he groans. “You’re killing me.”
We both freeze for a second.
“Not like that,” he says gently, his hand reassuring on my hip.
He leans forward to lay open-mouthed kisses on my back, carefully avoiding my spine.
“I just mean you feel so good, and I just want to bury myself inside you.” He slips his hand around to caress my clit again until that spreading warmth returns.
After a few moments, everything in me loosens and relaxes again, opening up to him.
“That’s it. Such a good girl,” he murmurs. “Aren’t you, Jocasta? Letting me fuck you.”
He pushes in deeper, and I moan as he reaches his limit inside me.
He retreats and I make a protesting noise until he slams back into me. Thrusts are quick and punitive at first until my body adjusts and the soft wet noises take over, interspersed between gasps.
“Fuck yes.” He reaches over me and braces his hands next to mine on the footboard, his hips pistoning into me. “You feel me? Look at you taking my dick like you were made for it.” Carter has a bit of a dirty talk streak, it seems, and I love it.
He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “I’m going to make you come, then I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll never forget me.”
I’m so, so close, I can feel the goosebumps spreading across my skin. But I need just a little more. “Please.” I grab one of his hands and press it against my clit.
“I’ve got you.” He traces his fingertip around the sensitive nub and then my opening, pulled tight around his cock.
An involuntary shudder racks my body, and my limbs tighten in release, flutters and spasms cascading through me. I can’t breathe for a second, lost in the dizzy rush of it.
He stops, waiting for the waves to slow. Then he kisses my shoulder blade. “You okay?” He’s still hard inside me.
“Yesss.” My answer is slurred and dragged out in pleasure.
“Good.” He releases the footboard and straightens up, gripping my hips harder and changing the depth of his penetration. He pounds into me—quick, hard strokes, small grunts punctuating his efforts, and to my surprise the friction stirs my blood again. I usually can’t get off from just penetration.
But something about the wildness of the sounds coming from his throat, the neediness inherent in his thrusts, gets to me. The ripples resurface, gripping him tightly inside of me, muscles milking him.
“Oh, shit, you’re…” he breaks off, unable to finish the thought.
He gives two quick final thrusts, and then I feel him shudder against and inside me.
His fingers grip so hard I know there will be bruises, and that doesn’t bother me in the least.