Chapter 44
Chapter Forty-Four
Vesper
Darkness. Thick, total. The blackout curtains are working overtime, and I wake up with no clue what time it is. Only that I’m wearing someone else’s shirt. And that I’m not alone.
There’s the smell first. Sex and sin and whatever scent we left on the pillows that shouldn’t turn me on but absolutely does.
Sleepy warmth clings to the sheets, soaked into my skin.
My breasts ache—tender from hormones and from mouths that didn’t know how to be gentle.
My thighs are sore in the best way. My hips hum.
The center of me still pulses like memory.
Their mouths.
Callaway’s cock.
Monty’s voice when he whispered, “Let go for us, baby.”
I press my eyes shut again.
I must’ve fallen asleep wrapped in that fog of them, because I don’t remember much after someone—Monty?—slipped a shirt over my head. I’m pretty sure these boxers aren’t mine. They’re loose and soft, riding low on my hips, and they still smell like detergent and Callaway.
I stretch—slowly—and that’s when I feel it.
Heat. Pressure.
I stay still for a minute.
Just to feel him.
The warmth of his chest at my back. The weight of his hand on my stomach. His cock—hard and thick and so close it’s like he’s already halfway inside me.
It shouldn’t make me feel this drunk. But here we are.
The shirt I’m wearing—it’s soft and worn, and when I breathe in, it still smells like Monty. And the body behind me? That’s definitely him. All restraint and quiet control and . . . fuck, he’s hard.
And I want him.
Not like last night, all worship and patience.
Now I want to crawl into his lap and take.
I want him inside me again—slow at first, then rough when he can’t help himself. I want to know what it feels like when the man who’s always in control breaks because of me.
I press back a little, just enough that the curve of him drags against my ass.
He stirs.
Not all the way. But enough that his grip on my stomach tightens, and his cock kicks against my thigh like it heard me thinking about him.
I bite my lip, the ache between my legs blooming into something dangerous.
I shouldn’t.
He’s sleeping.
But then again . . .
I close my eyes and let myself remember. Just for a second.
His cock in my mouth. The fullness of it against my tongue. The way he groaned when I sucked him deeper, like I’d reached something he hadn’t let anyone touch in years.
The heat. His hands in my hair.
He tasted like surrender.
Like a man who hadn’t been touched in too long and didn’t know what to do with someone loving every inch of him.
I loved it.
Loved watching his control unravel, loved how he didn’t say a word—just felt. Raw and silent and all mine.
And now?
Now I want that inside me.
I want to feel him stretch me open. I want the groan he makes when he pushes in. I want the praise. I want his hands holding my hips like I might disappear. His voice in my ear saying mine.
My thighs clench.
I think I whimper.
And that’s when Monty shifts behind me, just enough to murmur—low, gravel-rough, still wrecked from sleep.
“You awake, baby?”
“Uh-huh,” is all I can manage.
I feel his smile against the curve of my shoulder before I hear his voice again, slower this time. Teasing. Dangerous in that soft, quiet way that coils heat low in my belly.
“I’ve got an extra hour this morning,” he says, his palm sliding over the front of my thigh. “What do you want to do before I start the day?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer.
His mouth finds the side of my neck—warm and open. Not a kiss. A claim. A drag of lips along skin that makes my breath catch. Then the lightest scrape of teeth that makes my thighs press together, instinctively, shamelessly.
I can’t answer. Not really.
Not when he’s doing that.
His hand moves, slow as sin, up under the shirt I’m wearing. His fingers graze my stomach, and when his palm settles just below my navel, we both pause.
He presses a kiss to the back of my ear. “You’re warm here,” he whispers. “So fucking soft.”
His hand slides lower.
“Monty,” I breathe, more plea than warning.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you anything.”
I reach for him.
Slowly. Like it costs me something.
Like I need him to know how much I mean it.
My hand covers his, right where he’s hovering—just above the place I want him most. His fingers twitch beneath mine, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush.
Monty’s never rushed anything in his life.
“I want you,” I whisper, my voice scratchy and small. “Touch me.”
He exhales against my neck—warm and reverent—and lets me guide him lower. His hand fits perfectly beneath mine, and when his fingers slip beneath the waistband of the boxers I’m wearing, my breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already wet.”
“Because of you,” I say, shameless, soft.
His mouth drags down my shoulder, open and slow. “Then I guess I should take some responsibility.”
His fingers slide between my folds, slick and easy, and I don’t even try to hide the sound I make.
“I love how your body talks to me,” he murmurs, stroking me with lazy, sinful precision. “You always give me what I need before I even ask.”
“I want more,” I whisper. My voice breaks at the edges. “I want your mouth and your fingers.”
I’m already rolling my hips up into his hand before he can answer, desperate for contact, for friction, for him.
Monty groans low behind me, and it goes straight through my spine.
“You sound so fucking needy,” he breathes, kissing the hinge of my jaw. “You really want to come on my fingers before the sun’s even up?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
He kisses down the side of my neck. Slow. Controlled. A brush of lips. A scrape of stubble. My thighs clench.
Then he murmurs, right at my ear, “You’re wearing Cally’s boxers.”
I go still.
His hand stays where it is, cupped between my thighs, but he doesn’t move.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he says, rough and low. “You’re in his boxers. But you’re wet for me.”
My breath catches. My cheeks burn.
He finally moves again—fingers slipping slow and lazy over my clit like he’s petting me through it.
“So fucking naughty,” he murmurs, dragging the words out. “You want me to tear these off with my teeth, baby?”
I can’t answer. I whimper.
“You want your foul-mouthed control freak to ruin these boxers while he eats your pussy like it’s his only job on earth?”
I nod frantically, twisting in the sheets, trying to push them down myself, but he catches my wrists.
“No,” he says, voice like silk over steel. “I’m doing this my way.”
Then he rolls me to my back, his body moving over mine like smoke and muscle and hunger. He kisses down my chest, pushing the oversized shirt up inch by inch, lips trailing heat.
“I’ve been dreaming of this mouth,” he whispers, dragging the fabric up and off, exposing me completely. “Of how you taste when you beg. How you sound when I don’t let you come.”
He drops between my legs, palms firm on my thighs, holding me open like he already knows I’ll try to squirm away.
“I’m going to lick you so slow,” he murmurs, breath warm against my skin, “you’ll forget how to want anything but this.”
And then he does.
His mouth—fuck. It’s heat, pressure, and precision so filthy it shouldn’t be legal. He licks me once, flat and slow, from the bottom of my slit to the tip of my clit, and my back lifts off the bed. Just a little. Just enough to make him growl.
“Stay still,” he says, his voice low and rough and fucking in control. “You asked for this, sunshine. You wanted my mouth? Then take it.”
I gasp. “Monty—”
“You’re already soaked,” he mutters, like he’s upset by how easy I make this. Like I’m the one torturing him.
His tongue circles my clit once, then again, then pulls back just enough to breathe against me.
“I could live down here,” he whispers. “You taste like sex and fucking salvation.”
My thighs try to close around his head. His grip tightens.
“No,” he says, mouth dragging over the tender skin of my thigh. “You stay open for me.”
And I do. I can’t not.
Because his mouth is back on me, slower now, his tongue teasing little flicks just below where I need him most. Every time I try to rock up to chase the pressure, he pulls away.
“Monty,” I beg, voice wrecked. “Please—”
“Not yet.”
Two fingers slide into me before I even realize he’s moved his hand. I cry out, hips jolting, and he groans against me like I’m the one feeding him.
“So fucking tight,” he growls. “You want to come, baby?”
“Yes. Please.”
He curls his fingers inside me just so, finding that spot that makes me whimper.
“But you don’t get to come until I say,” he says, dragging his tongue across my clit again. “You said you wanted my fingers and my mouth. You didn’t say how fast.”
I choke on a laugh that turns into a moan.
This man is ruining me.
And I want more.
I want to sob.
I want to come on his tongue.
I want him inside me, slow and deep, while he kisses me like I’m the only thing that’s ever shut him up.
I want the press of his body against mine and the heat of his mouth swallowing every sound I make.
I want to feel stretched and taken and worshipped until I don’t remember what it was like to live without this.
I want everything.
And then—he does something wicked.
Monty pulls his fingers out of me, slow enough to make me whimper, and without warning, he licks lower. His mouth slides from my soaked folds to that other, tighter place—his tongue flicking against it like a tease, like a threat.
My nerves light up. My body jolts.
He circles it once, then drags his finger down to replace his mouth, rubbing soft, slow pressure that makes my thighs shake.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice thick and reverent. “This little hole’s mine too.”
My hips rock. I can’t help it.
“We need to start training it,” he says, kissing the inside of my thigh. “If you want to. If you want to take both of us—me and Cally—at the same time.”
The words go straight to my core.