Chapter 8 Carissa
Chapter eight
Carissa
Seeing Wilder slowly let go of all his walls, drop his defenses, and let himself be vulnerable is the sexiest thing I have ever witnessed.
I’m down on my knees here. I’m pretty sure this is real life, and I haven’t gone into some weird trance-like state due to the roast seasoning being some strange herbs my mom had lying around, meant for rituals she absolutely does not even practice, swapped accidentally with regular salt and pepper.
Yeah, that’s not a thing.
I know this is real. Wilder’s fingers rake through my hair, half combing it tenderly, half frantically gathering it into his hand, and the resulting sting tells me this is beyond real.
I’m barely able to cogitate. I’m going to lose myself. I’m going to let go of every boundary I’ve ever erected, let go of all my inhibitions, and lower my own walls, some of which are in place to protect both of us from getting hurt.
Even knowing this could shatter my heart later isn’t enough to stop this.
Not when I’ve been waiting what feels like my whole life to kiss Wilder.
To touch him. To worship him. Not as a rockstar, but as just him.
As a man who thinks and feels everything so deeply.
As one lonely person to another. As someone with her heart wide open, even though it should have been closed off with reason and rational thinking long ago.
There’s not a whole lot of reason going on in my brain right now. It’s more mad need. I’m possessed by it.
I curl my hands around Wilder’s muscular thighs and trace my nose along the massive outline of his cock. Then I suck on him right through the leather. The leather is not thick, and it’s not tough. It’s so soft that I can trace the entire outline of him with my tongue.
Is this going to damage his pants? How many thousands of dollars will it cost me if I have to replace them? Is this sanitary? Am I ingesting dye? Is this weird?
“Fuck,” he curses on a groan. He glides his zipper open and pushes those tight pants down just enough to take his cock out.
I can’t imagine what my face looks like right now.
It’s hot. So hot. I’m probably scarlet. I know my eyes have to be ridiculously huge.
My mouth waters at the sight of Wilder’s long, thick length.
Having it outlined in his pants is so much different than having it right in front of me, held in his strong hand, swollen, and leaking precum from the tip.
I can’t hold myself back. I can’t be proper or sane or nice when I’m this far gone.
I grasp his thighs and capture him in my mouth.
Rolling my tongue over the head of his cock, I gather up the salty taste of him and hum as I swallow it down.
Then, I surge forward, taking him far too fast, straight to the back of my throat.
I swallow on instinct so I don’t gag, even though my eyes instantly tear up, and saliva gathers at the corners of my lips.
“Holy fucking gingersnaps,” he gasps, pulling back so he doesn’t hurt me.
I reach behind him and grasp his ass. His rock-hard ass. Kneading? There’s no kneading back here. He’s so solid everywhere that the only thing my fingers sink into is leather.
I take him slowly this time, circling his head with my tongue before I push forward and take him deeper and deeper.
I don’t stop until he’s at the back of my throat, and then even further.
I swallow over and over again, breathing through my nose before I pull back just until I’m not choking myself anymore.
I love the way he throbs in my mouth. I have just enough control that I back off a little bit more, until I can run my tongue over his shaft, exploring the shape of him, all the veins, and the way the shape changes from his shaft to the head of him.
“Fuck, fuck,” he hisses, dragging in hard, hot breaths of his own. He doubles down on that when I wrap my hand around the base of his cock and squeeze while still teasing my tongue up and down the length of him. “Want to eat you out naked,” he pants.
“Me or you?” I pant right back, sucking madly on his tip to make up for having to pop him out of my mouth to talk. I keep my hand wrapped tightly around him.
“Both.”
I barely even register what I’m doing as I whip my T-shirt over my head.
I have a sports bra on, and it takes some brainpower to get out of it.
The damn things are like ratchet straps at the best of times.
I don’t know anyone who likes operating those things.
They’re nearly impossible to figure out.
My breasts spring free, heavy and aching, my nipples hard, begging to be touched and tasted.
“Fuck,” he curses, his eyes glued right to them. “Sorry. That’s all I seem to be able to say.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not very classy.”
“I don’t need classy. I just need you.”
That seems to unlock something inside him. Or unleash.
Either way, he’s ripping off his own T-shirt and giving me an insane view of his chiseled abs, his killer man V, the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, his pecs with his tight brown nipples, and all his delicious veins.
He’s completely hairless. I know he gets it waxed off.
I know a lot of intimate things. But it doesn’t make him less attractive.
Knowing them is sweet. It’s like being entrusted with his secrets.
He strips off his leather pants, tugging and cursing at them under his breath. My shorts come off so much easier. I undo the button and zipper, and they fall down my legs.
I should be stopping this, not mewling, whimpering, and arching my back like I’m riding one massive hormonal wave that I have zero control over. But then there’s all the buts.
But he’s a great kisser.
But he smells like leather and bergamot, a little bit of oranges, almonds, and the sugary breakfast cereal he eats every single morning without fail.
But his hair is just starting to spring back from the wig, and since it was damp under there, it’s now curling in the most adorable way.
But his eyes are the most alluring green. Mint in a rolling meadow of wild grass.
But he’s beautiful the way everyone knows, and the ways they don’t. He doesn’t make country music, but it’s still just the chords and the truth for him.
But he’s fun and unpredictable. He dresses in leather pants, a wig, and a fake beard just to come and apologize.
But he’s a great, great kisser with ridiculously kissable lips, and he tastes like mint and redemption. AND the red leather pants, AND his soft curly hair, and those green eyes, and all of both our histories crashing right into this hurricane of a moment.
He’s there, getting on his knees, gliding me around to face the island, and kissing along the insides of my thighs, so near to my yellow lace panties. All I can do is throw my head back, close my eyes, and pray this moment never ends.
If there were ever one moment that could be paused and framed, I’d like this to be it.
Minus my panty choice. They’re not a nice yellow. Or a nice lace. They’re more like the last thing I had in my drawer because I still haven’t unpacked my bags from the tour bus, even though it’s been a week.
Denial? Probably. Wounded, screaming, horrible pain that I couldn’t acknowledge? Unpacking my bags feeling very much like I’m unpacking all that? Probably. Probably all of that.
“Jack,” I whimper, twisting my fingers through his soft hair, barely hanging on already. “You’re going to destroy me.”
“Jack?” He looks up at me, a half smile of amusement tilting his lips.
God. Those. Lips.
They’re going to destroy me.
“Do you prefer Jackson?”
“I prefer whatever you want to call me. No one calls me Jack.”
“I know.”
“No one calls me Jackson either. I hate it.”
“I know that too.”
“Nothing makes me want to morph into a monkey and fling poop more than that.”
I giggle then hiccup-gasp as his hand slides between my legs and glides up my thigh. He dips his head in close, kissing where his hand just touched and heightening my anticipation so wildly that there isn’t an inch of my skin left without goosebumps.
“You’re so beautiful,” he croons. It’s the same tone he uses for singing. The voice that drives everyone wild. But it’s still his voice. It’s not something he puts on. “I love the way you smell.”
I flush deeply, my toes curling. I just had his cock down my throat and my nose nestled right into him before that, but it’s different when he does it to me. It makes me shy.
When he nudges my thighs wider, I let him spread me open, though. I rest my feet on his shoulders and then edge them down his back when he leans closer. Closer, so much closer, until his hot breath fans over my overheated skin, though his still feels warmer.
Nothing is hotter than his mouth. Literally. Figuratively. All the ways.
He licks me right over the soaked lace, tracing a path to my clit.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, angling his chin down so that while he flicks his tongue over my sensitive nerves, his skin rasps over the rest of me, pressing the lace down hard.
I didn’t know lace could be so abrasive.
I didn’t know I could hate it for being in the way so badly.
He shifts his mouth, pulling it away before balling my panties up in his hand.
But he doesn’t tear them off or away. He twists them, trapping my clit while freeing almost all of the rest of me.
His tongue traces down my seam, and then he latches his mouth there and eats at me like he’s been waiting an eternity for exactly this moment. He doesn’t tease me. He devours me.
It’s like asking for a tiny little static shock for fun and getting the business end of a cattle prod. Except it also feels good, in a torturous sort of way.
“Holy fucks,” I groan. Fucks. As in, all of them. I need every single one right now. He’s two seconds in, and I’m about to come apart at the seams.
Where’s the sexual glue when you need it? Or control, I suppose.