Chapter 17 #2
She responds by gripping my shirt tighter, knuckles pressing into my chest. I move to the second button, then the third, each deliberate motion revealing another inch of her.
The fabric parts like a curtain, and the lamplight catches the defined lines of her stomach—taut muscle beneath soft skin, the result of countless hours hauling equipment and climbing ladders while the rest of us watched from the ground.
"You're staring." Her voice comes out rougher than before.
"I'm appreciating." I slide the shirt off her shoulders, letting it fall behind her. She stands before me in just her practical black bra and I trace my thumb along the strap curving over her collarbone. "There's a difference."
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, the swell of her breasts straining against the cups. I want to tear it off. Instead, I lean in and press my lips to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and warmth.
"AJ." My name leaves her mouth like a warning and a plea tangled together.
"Mmm?" I work my way along her collarbone, planting slow kisses across the ridge of bone. My hands settle at her waist, thumbs tracing the defined lines of her obliques. She's solid under my palms—powerful in a way that makes my cock ache against my trousers.
"If you don't—"
"Don't what?" I nip at the join of her neck and shoulder, and she shudders. "Don't take my time? Don't make you feel every single thing I'm doing to you?"
Her fingers abandon my shirt and rake through my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. I lift my head and meet her eyes. Those deep blue irises nearly black now, the pupils blown wide.
"You talk too much." But there's no real command in it. Her breath hitches on the last word.
I smile, and I know she can read the intent in it. "I've barely started."
My hands slide down to her hips, gripping the firm muscle there. In one fluid motion, I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist on instinct, her thighs squeezing tight, her arms looping over my shoulders.
"Better," I say against her lips.
She kisses me hard, desperate, her tongue pushing into my mouth. I let her have it for a moment, let her pour all that frustrated want into the slide of her lips and the scrape of her teeth. Then I pull back, and she chases my mouth.
"Ah-ah." I tighten my grip on her hips, holding her still. "My pace, remember?"
"Fuck your pace." She rocks against me, grinding herself along the rigid length straining in my trousers. The friction sends a bolt of heat through my gut.
"Keep doing that and this ends before it starts." The words come out rougher than I intend, and her smile turns sharp, knowing. She did that on purpose.
I start walking, carrying her down a short hallway toward where I assume her bedroom to be. Her back hits the wall once, and she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. I pause there, pressing her into the plaster, and dip my head to trace the edge of her bra with my tongue.
“I think I started wanting this before I was ready to admit it,” I say. “Every time you turned up for shift like you were just walking into another day.”
I lower my mouth to the edge of her plain black bra, feeling her nipple harden beneath the fabric.
“In dresses. Jumpers. Boots. Whatever you were wearing before the station claimed you again.”
Her breath catches as I pull the cup down, exposing her breast to the cool air.
“And then you’d step into the job, give one instruction, and everyone listened.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Because they trust you,” I say, circling her nipple with my thumb. “Because you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And I’d stand there with my notebook, trying very hard not to think about what it would take for you to stop being in control for five minutes.”
Her head tips back against the wall. "AJ—"
“I’m going to take my time,” I say, lowering my mouth to her breast and brushing my tongue over her nipple.
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Not because I’m patient,” I murmur against her skin. “Because I’m not. Because I want to remember exactly what you sound like when you stop trying to stay in control.”
She makes a sound, half moan, half protest, and I take her nipple into my mouth. I suck hard, pulling the sensitive flesh between my lips, and her hips jerk against me. Her fingers scrabble at my back, nails catching on the fabric of my shirt.
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand continues to tease the first, rolling and pinching the wet nipple between my fingers. The contrast makes her writhe, her thighs clenching around my waist.
"Please." The word escapes her like she didn't mean to say it.
I lift my head, her nipple slipping from my lips with a wet pop. "Please what?"
Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. "Don't stop."
"I haven't even started." I push off the wall and carry her the rest of the way to the bedroom.
The bed is unmade, which I have no right to find endearing.
Pippa can command an emergency scene, run a watch, terrify grown men into competence, and still apparently leave her duvet in a heap like the rest of us.
I lay her down on it, and she immediately reaches for me, trying to pull me on top of her.
I catch her wrists again, pressing them into the mattress on either side of her head.
"Still impatient."
"Still talking." But there's no heat in it now. Just want.
I release her wrists and straighten, looking down at her. Her chest heaves with each breath, her exposed breasts rising and falling. Her trousers are still on, which feels increasingly like a personal failing on my part.
My self-control makes a serious attempt to leave the room.
“Take off your bra,” I say, stepping back and reaching for the hem of my T-shirt.
She looks at me, breathing hard.
“Please,” I add, because apparently some manners survive even this.
Her mouth curves, just barely, then she reaches behind herself. Her fingers work at the clasp for a second before it gives, and the straps loosen over her shoulders.
I pull my T-shirt over my head as she slides the bra down her arms and lets it fall beside her.
For a moment, I forget what I am supposed to be doing.
She is beautiful in a way that makes my throat tight. Strong and soft and real, her chest rising with every unsteady breath while she watches me watching her.
Her gaze drifts down my body, and the heat in her eyes nearly does me in.
I kick off my trainers and reach for the button of my jeans, but she sits up, her hands replacing mine.
“Let me.”
I let her have that much.
For one dangerous second, I let her fingers work at the button, let her look up at me from the edge of the mattress like she knows exactly what she is doing to me.
Then I capture her wrists gently.
“Not yet.” I ease her back down onto the mattress. “I told you. My pace.”
I kneel on the bed between her legs, running my palms up her thighs. The muscle trembles beneath my touch. I find the button of her trousers and undo it, sliding the zip down slowly. She lifts her hips, and I pull the fabric down her legs, taking her knickers with it.
She lies before me, fully exposed now. The thatch of dark hair between her thighs is slick with arousal, her folds glistening in the low light. I settle between her legs, my shoulders pushing her thighs wider.
"AJ, what are you—"
"I'm going to taste you." I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle jump. "And you're going to lie there and take it."
She opens her mouth to respond, but I lower my head and drag my tongue through her wet folds, and whatever she was going to say dissolves into a moan.
She's hot and slick against my mouth, her taste musky and sharp.
I find her clit and circle it slowly, deliberately, feeling the swollen nub pulse under my tongue.
Her hands fly to my head, fingers tangling in my hair. "Oh god—"
When I finally close my lips around her clit and suck, she cries out, a raw, broken sound that goes straight through me.
I lift my head just enough to look at her.
Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes are dark, fixed on mine, and for once there is no order waiting behind them.
“Pippa,” I say, quieter now. “Trust me. You can let go.”