Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
She was floating, and not just because Walker was carrying her. Because she had never felt like this before. Her whole body was lit up. So on edge, and burning in a way that she never had been in her life.
No. There were exceptions.
That time that he had bent down at graduation and looked her right in the eye. Congratulations.
That time he had said it again on that horseback ride for what was supposed to be her bridal shower.
It had lit her up from the inside out. Because Walker had always been able to do that. Not Alan. Not either of the guys she’d been with in college. She had thought that maybe reuniting with Alan would make the sex better because it would be something nostalgic. He had been her first, after all.
But it hadn’t been like that, not at all, and she had just told herself that at that point she had to accept that it was her.
She was the one that wasn’t all that great in bed. She was the one who just wasn’t all that... sexual.
But this made a mockery of that. Because she was ready to beg, yes she was, to come apart at the seams, to come, just from that kiss, and that made everything she had ever thought about her sex drive, her libido into something that was a clear and obvious lie.
A lie she had told herself because of what she didn’t want to be, out of fear, and she didn’t want to live with that fear anymore.
She wanted to know what it was like.
To want and to have this desperately.
To need Walker inside of her, and then to have him inside of her.
She had been playing a dangerous game with him from the beginning.
Maybe it would have been better if that night, after the wedding, she had just begged him to take her.
If she had lost her head then.
But no. It had taken all this time.
It had taken them constructing some kind of facade to make it acceptable, and that actually made her feel small and ashamed.
But there was no space for that, not here. Not now.
There was nothing but this.
So he carried her upstairs, and pushed open the door to his bedroom.
It was nice. Which was expected, actually, because Walker was the kind of guy who seemed to like expensive things. His truck was great, brand new. His house was meticulously designed.
His room was slate gray with some sort of narrow vertical wood paneling on the wall behind the bed.
The bedspread was a Pendleton blanket in muted colors with charcoal-colored pillows.
The floor was dark wood, with a sheepskin rug thrown over the top of it.
There was a fireplace with glass panels on the front and back that allowed you to see the view outside.
It was immaculate. In all the ways that Walker was.
Also decadent, and thoroughly masculine.
It was amazing that she could think about the bedroom at a time like this, but it was another piece to the Walker puzzle, and that was why it was interesting. Everything about him felt interesting at the moment. Everything about him felt imperative.
Everything else was white noise.
He set her down on the bed, and didn’t give her a chance to draw in a full breath before he grabbed hold of her legs and dragged her toward the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees in front of her as he spread her thighs wide, her dress flipping up around her hips.
She tried desperately to remember which pair of underwear she had put on before coming downstairs, but she couldn’t.
Judging by his growl of satisfaction, though, they met the standard.
“Fuck,” he said, large hands on her thighs as he leaned in and she jumped as he pressed his nose against the most sensitive part of her.
It was instinctual for her to pull away, to try and push herself back on the mattress, but the moment that she did try, he gripped her hips and pulled her more firmly toward him.
“No,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for years, and I’m going to take my time with it. Don’t rush me.”
She hadn’t been rushing him. She was just a little bit freaked out, because she felt on the edge of something bigger than she’d ever experienced before, and he hadn’t even technically touched her intimately yet.
Blunt, rough fingers pulled her underwear down her thighs, and he flung them off to the side, so that she could catch a glimpse of the peach cotton.
Well. That was the pair that she had put on.
It was somewhat of a hysterical thought, but then, she felt borderline hysterical.
All those years of resisting this? And for what. For what?
A reputation that meant nothing, that hadn’t protected her from public humiliation? A reputation that she had wanted to preserve so intensely that she had almost married the wrong person? Trapped herself.
To deny this? This thing that felt so...
His hot mouth pressed against her inner thigh, and her head fell back, a whimper escaping her lips.
“Easy girl,” he said. “I’m going to show you what you want.”
His tongue traced a hot trail up to the crease between her thigh and that most intimate part of her, and she held her breath before he flicked his tongue over that sensitive bundle of nerves there. Before he licked her where she was wet and needy for him.
Her hips nearly came up off the bed, but he held her fast, allowing her just the smallest bit of movement as he began to consume her.
His mouth was wicked and relentless, and she forgot to have shame.
It was like the concept of it just melted away, slipped out of her mind and floated off into space.
She had never known who she was without that shame. That shame lived in her. It was always there, telling her not to get too hedonistic, telling her not to enjoy sex too much, or to want it too badly.
Just don’t be a slut like your mother.
Yes, it was always there, and suddenly it was gone. Suddenly the idea of being a slut didn’t seem so bad, as long as she was his.
Suddenly, she wasn’t in control of anything, not her need for him, not her response to him.
Nothing. And she loved it. Reveled in it, gloried in it even, and she had never thought it would be a possibility.
But this was her, Addison Carey, living without all that heaviness that had been placed inside of her body the moment that her mother had left.
Because everything had been perfect. And then she had fallen out of the treehouse, and when her father had been fixing the scrape on her knee, he had explained to her very calmly why her knee hurt, and her heart hurt, and every time she had a band-aid after that, she couldn’t help but remember that moment.
Physical and emotional wounds linked together in ways that she didn’t think she would ever be able to separate them. And maybe that was part of why it had always felt like it had something to do with her. Like the wound was there, out in the open for everyone to see.
Maybe that was why. It had always felt like it was hers to carry. Hers to fix. Hers to heal.
Or maybe she was just dizzy with need in this moment, and she was weaving constellations out of scattered stars that never meant to connect.
Then he pushed a finger inside of her, as he continued to tease her with his mouth, and every thought exited her head.
There was nothing but Walker, his wicked mouth, and the slick friction he was building with his hands.
Then, it was like everything shattered. The ceiling above her cracked open to reveal a broad, expansive sky, and everything felt like it was raining down on her in a shower of sparks as her climax overtook her.
As she cried out his name, as she surrendered not only her shame, but her... self-doubt, her... desire to be hidden away, all of it.
All she could do was hold onto his shoulders and ride out the impossibly glorious wave.
He stood up, and looked down at her, the satisfied smile on his face so sexy and tempting that it didn’t even make her mad.
“What do you think? Do you think we’re getting somewhere close to good sex?”
She wanted to hit him. But mainly so she could touch him.
He reached behind his head and tugged his t-shirt off, exposing the perfection of his chest, all broad and muscled with golden hair sprinkled over those shockingly hot pecs, and perfect washboard abs.
Because of course. Of course he was perfect, all the way down. Her eyes went to the outline of his erection in his jeans. It looked thick and long. Because of course it was.
Because when it came to Walker, God had given with both hands. He was gorgeous, brilliant, and well-endowed, apparently.
She should have known. He conducted himself with nothing less than big dick energy, all the damned time.
She expected him to take off the rest of his clothes, but instead, he grabbed hold of the bottom of her dress and flipped it up over her head, tugging it up in one rough pull, and sending it the way of those peach underwear.
Then he unhooked her bra. And she didn’t feel exposed, she felt proud. Because of all that fire in his eyes.
Because all that shame was gone. Because she could appreciate and enjoy the effect that she was having on him.
What a revelation.
Then his hands moved to his belt, then he began to undo the buckle, then he pulled it through the loops and tossed it onto the floor. Kicked off his boots and unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.
Then, he pulled them down, and exposed all of himself. He was so beautiful.
She had never seen a man that was that perfect.
Equally glorious across every inch of his body. Every bit the fantasy, every bit. The most incredible specimen of manhood that she had ever beheld.
“You’re staring,” he said. “You’re going to make me blush.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” she said.
He lifted a brow, wrapped his hand around his thick arousal and squeezed it, making eye contact with her while he did, as he lazily stroked himself.
That felt so raw and dirty. Knowing that she was there as visual stimulation for him. And that he wasn’t shy about letting her know.
It felt wrong, and right all at once.
It felt just perfect, honestly.
She felt a small jolt of shame. At the same time, she felt her own hand moving toward that space between her thighs.