Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Eddie
She kisses me like she’s starving.
Like I’m air and she’s forgotten how to breathe without me.
But my hunger runs deeper because all I can think about—when her lips press against mine, when her breath stutters between us—is him.
Barret.
Still on her skin.
I want to know where he touched her.
Where his mouth lingered.
Where his fingers curled, where his teeth scraped, where she came apart beneath him.
I want her to tell me with her body. With every gasp, every hitch in her breath, every tremble in her thighs when I touch the places he’s just worshipped.
I want to taste him on her.
I want to feel him in the way she moves beneath me. The way her hips roll. The way her back arches.
I want her to carry the imprint of both of us—until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“You let him kiss you here?” I ask, brushing my lips down her neck. “Right here?”
She shivers.
Her fingers fist in the front of my shirt. I don’t even wait for her to answer. My mouth drags lower, across her collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and skin and something that isn’t mine but could be if I sink deep enough.
“If I put my mouth where he had his,” I whisper, voice cracked and uneven, “will I still taste him?”
She gasps and doesn’t deny it. Her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling in short bursts.
That’s a yes.
I groan and lift her and she wraps around me like she’s done it a thousand times. Her legs lock at my hips. Her breath ghosts across my neck.
I carry her up the stairs. Not to the main bedroom, but mine. Because I want to claim this moment. I want her—soft and flushed and ruined all over again.
But I also want him.
Every part of her that still tastes like Barret.
I want it all.
And I’ll take it slow if I have to.
But only until I lose control.
Because I’m not just going to fuck her.
I’m going to feel him inside her, too.
And maybe—just maybe—it’ll be enough to pretend we’re all in this bed together.
Her legs tighten around my waist as I carry her upstairs, her breath hot against my throat. The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly there’s nothing but silence and the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears.
I set her down slowly, letting her slide down my body until her feet touch the floor. My hands don’t leave her waist. I don’t want them to.
She’s only wearing one of my shirts and a pair of panties. That’s it. Nothing else—just her. And it kills me a little how fucking beautiful she looks like this—flushed, already swollen from Barret’s touch, wearing clothes that aren’t hers but ours.
Meanwhile I’m still dressed for a world I don’t even belong to right now.
Dress shirt clinging to my shoulders, slacks hugging my hips, boxer briefs beneath—all too tight, all too restrictive.
I let my knuckles graze up her thigh, just beneath the hem of the shirt, brushing against the damp cotton between her legs. My voice drops low.
“Did he kiss you here?”
Her breath hitches.
I smile, slow, dark. “Or was his mouth lower?”
I press a kiss to her jaw, then trail down the side of her throat, open-mouthed, dragging my tongue across skin still warm from him. “Tell me, Cleo. Did Barret have you moaning right here—” I bite lightly at the curve of her shoulder, “—or did he keep going until you begged?”
She gasps, fingers tightening in my shirt, but doesn’t answer.
That’s okay. I don’t need her to. Her silence is permission enough.
I take the hem of the shirt between my fingers and tug it up slowly, inch by inch, exposing her flushed skin, the peaks of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach.
She lifts her arms without me asking, and I peel it away, tossing it aside like it doesn’t deserve to be on her body in the first place.
She’s almost bare—shirt gone—just her, trembling and waiting for me. My breath catches at the sight. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick inhale, nipples already tight, begging for my mouth.
I don’t hesitate.
My palms cup her, kneading, squeezing until she moans and arches into me. God, they’re perfect—full, warm, spilling into my hands like they were made for them. For me.
“Barret loves these,” I murmur against her skin, voice low, taunting. “Couldn’t keep his hands off them, could he?”
Her gasp is answer enough.
I lower my head, taking one nipple between my lips, sucking hard until she cries out. I swirl my tongue over it, tug it between my teeth, not letting up until she’s writhing. Her fingers claw at my shoulders, desperate, half trying to pull me closer, half trying to survive the sensation.
“Did he suck you like this?” I growl against her breast, flicking my tongue over the swollen peak before switching to the other. “Did he bite down until you screamed for him?”
I don’t wait for her to answer. I nip the tip, sharp enough to make her cry out, then soothe it with slow, wet strokes of my tongue, savoring every sound that spills from her mouth.
Her body bows against me, back arching, pressing her tits harder to my face like she can’t stand the space between us. I drag my teeth along one nipple, then the other, pulling groans from her throat until she’s panting, her thighs trembling, wetness running down her legs.
I look up at her, lips slick, mouth still latched to her breast, and smile against her skin.
“I’m going to make you scream for me, Cleo. And when you do, I want to know if it sounds the same as when Barret had you.”
Then I suck harder, deeper, greedier—like I’m starving.
Now it’s just her in panties, trembling, chest rising fast. My girl. Our girl.
I drop to my knees in front of her, my palms sliding up the backs of her thighs until I’m cupping her ass, dragging her closer to my mouth. My lips brush the damp fabric stretched over her cunt, the scent of Barret still clinging to her.
I groan, deep and low. “Fuck, I can taste him already.”
Her knees buckle, and I grip tighter, forcing her to stand. I drag my tongue slowly across the cotton, savoring, taunting. “Do you like that? Knowing I want to taste him through you while I make you come?”
She whimpers—broken, needy.
I hook my fingers into her panties and tug them down, slow enough to torture. The fabric slides along her hips, down her thighs, until it falls forgotten at her ankles.
My breath hitches.
She’s wet, swollen, glistening—open in a way that makes my pulse pound in my ears. And it isn’t just because of me.
It’s him.
Barret.
I see him on her. In her. The way she’s already stretched, already trembling, already carrying his touch like a brand across her skin. He’s left his mark inside her. And, God, it shouldn’t make me ache the way it does. But it does because I love him.
Because I want him as much as I want her.
And here, right now, she’s the only bridge I have to both of us for now.
Later I’ll take him—have them both. I kneel between her thighs and press my mouth close, close enough to breathe her in.
The scent of her, the faint taste of him lingering there—it makes my whole body clench with need.
My tongue drags along her slit, slow, deliberate, pulling a broken sound from her lips.
“Fuck,” I whisper against her. “He’s still here. I can taste him in your skin.”
I close my mouth over her clit, gently suckling, teasing her with the truth between us. “You like that, don’t you? Knowing I want him through you . . . while I make you mine.”
And fuck if that doesn’t make me harder than I’ve ever been.
I press my mouth to her, slow, savoring. Her taste explodes across my tongue—salty, sweet, familiar, but not only hers. I groan, low and guttural, gripping her ass tighter to keep her steady.
“Goddamn,” I breathe against her, licking her again, slower this time, deliberately gathering everything she’s soaked in.
She whimpers, one hand tangling in my hair, the other clutching the edge of the dresser behind her. Her hips twitch forward, desperate, needy for more.
I flatten my tongue and drag it from her entrance all the way up to her clit, slow enough to make her cry out. Then I circle the swollen bud once, twice—just enough to have her begging—before pulling back to look at her.
Her chest heaves. Her lips part. She looks wrecked already, and I haven’t given her everything I want.
“Not yet,” I murmur.
I press a kiss lower, then lower still, spreading her open, exposing her other secret place. My tongue traces her rim, teasing, wetting, soft at first—just enough for her to gasp and stiffen against me.
“Eddie . . .” she breathes, half-shock, half-desire.
I smile against her. “Yeah, baby. Here too.”
I lick slow circles, taunting her, savoring the way her body jerks, the way her knees buckle, the way her moans grow rougher, desperate.
My tongue drags lower, teasing the tight ring of muscle until she gasps, a shocked sound she can’t hold back.
I toy with her there, wet and relentless, until she’s trembling—and then I push past her entrance, tongue plunging deep until she’s crying out.
Her thighs quake around my head. She clings to the dresser now, knuckles white, gasping like she can’t believe I’m doing this to her—like she can’t believe how much she needs it.
I thrust my tongue deeper, fucking her, tasting her everywhere Barret hasn’t been. Claiming the places he didn’t take tonight. Every movement of my mouth is a reminder—she’s his and mine.
Then I pull back, licking my way up again—slow, savoring, greedy—until my mouth seals over her cunt once more. I drive my tongue inside, curling it, dragging her higher with every pass.
“Did he fuck you like this?” I ask, my voice rough against her. “Tongue so deep you could barely stand?”
She shakes her head, breathless. “N-no.”
I grin against her. “Good.”
I push my tongue inside her, burying it, curling against the spot that makes her thighs tremble. I groan louder this time, lapping at it slow and greedy, savoring every drop.