Chapter 36
“Now it’s my turn.”
Her fingertips skimmed down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, lingering at his waistband, her thumbs dipping beneath it, just long enough to make him exhale. She worked each button of his shirt loose.
“I like your shirt,” she murmured.
“I’d like it better draped over your naked, satisfied body.”
“Something about a crisp button-down and tailored slacks does terrible, wonderful things to me.”
“Something about a woman in my crisp button-down does something for me, too.”
“Then I guess we’d better get to that part.”
“Not on my watch. There won’t be rushing or mishandling, we’re going to do this right. We’re going to take our time—so slow you’ll be begging for me to sink inside you, begging for every inch, begging for permission to come. I’m not rushing a damn thing.”
“Well, we’re on mommy time. Which means this princess turns into a mom in about…” She looked at her watch. “Forty-eight minutes.”
“Freckles, this is one sprint in a race we’ve got all the time in the world to run. This is the first—won’t be the last.”
Sutton wished she could believe that, but nothing lasted forever—not this, not them. Their expiration date wasn’t distant or theoretical. It was close enough she could already feel the countdown in her bones.
She wished she could believe him, but secrets only stayed buried for so long. No matter how tightly you held them down, the truth had a way of clawing to the surface—and when it did, everything would crack open.
Without a response, she shoved the shirt off his shoulders and watched it slide to the floor. On the second pass down his torso she tracked every contracted muscle under her palms—like watching a landscape react to her touch.
She didn’t stop, her hand slid lower, settling at his waistband. She toyed with the button. “Stand.”
Something in his gaze heated, the kind of hot that would challenge the surface of the sun and win. “Yes, ma’am.”
Could the big, brutal man who barked commands all day actually get off on being the one who obeyed—on being told when to touch, when to beg, when to come?
She popped the button, unzipped him, and physics handled the rest.
“Everything goes,” she commanded.
He didn’t hesitate. After fishing a condom out of his wallet, he shoved his boxer-briefs down and stepped out, and for a beat she forgot how to breathe. He was big. Thick and hard in a way that made her thighs press together on instinct—powerful enough that words failed her.
She’d only had two lovers in her life—her high school boyfriend who’d fumbled his way through inexperience, and the ex who bailed the second Lynlee showed up on a sonogram. Nothing about either of them had prepared her for this—for a man who looked carved for sin and fully aware of it.
And god help her, she wanted every inch.
“Bedroom?” he asked.
“You haven’t earned that.” Hands on his pecs, she pushed him backwards until his calves hit the cushion of the couch. “Sit.”
He sat.
“Good.” She straddled him, pressing down so that all their good parts lined up.
With a growl, his hands slid up her thighs to her waist, around her back to the clasp of her bra.
Wanting to see just how far this game of submissiveness could go, she pulled back. “Did I say you could touch me?”
“No. But I really fucking need to unwrap you and then suck on those pretty tits.”
“I’d rather unwrap myself,” she said, catching his wrists and guiding his arms up until they folded behind his head. “No touching until I say. Understood?”
He nodded, his eyes locked on the mango-colored lace. Bra unclasped, ever so slowly, she let the fabric slide down her arms until it exposed all of her. He licked his lips.
“Can I touch you now?” he asked.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Can I please touch you now?”
“Yes.”
“Thank Christ.”
His hands were on her instantly—broad, greedy palms cupping her breasts, weighing each one like he’d been starving for the feel. His thumb rolled her nipple before he pinched, drawing a gasp from her—then he dipped his head and dragged his mouth over her, tongue and teeth far too eager.
She caught his chin between her fingers. “I said touch, not play.”
“Freckles, you told me I have forty-eight minutes.”
She looked at her watch again. “Forty-three.”
“Fuck,” he growled. “Forty-three then,” he murmured against her skin. “And I want to touch and taste every inch of you. So please—can I play?”
Hard to argue with that. “Yes.”
He didn’t waste a second. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her breasts to his mouth, sucking with an almost greedy reverence, like he’d been waiting years just for this permission.
His free hand slipped down her stomach, beneath the lace of her cheeky-cut panties, fingers finding heat and softness like it was his reward for asking nicely.
And god, she let him take it.
“Can I please taste you?” he asked.
“Because you’re being such a gentleman, yes.”
He was already cupping her hips and guiding her over him, while he slid down the couch, until she was on her knees and he was beneath her.
The position was new, indecent, and it lit every nerve she owned. His mouth skimmed up her inner thigh; teeth grazed the tender spot just above her slit, sending her pulse into freefall.
“Colter,” his name tumbled out.
He ignored where she ached for him, switching to her other thigh and repeating the same exquisite torture, and stopping just shy of where she’d break.
“Taste me. Now,” she demanded.
His low laugh vibrated against her, warm breath teasing over skin. He dragged her panties down her thighs until the tension stopped them from going any lower. Then his tongue slid up and devoured her—one long, slow stroke that stole her sanity.
He did it again and again, until her hips were rocking helplessly. If he hadn’t been holding her steady, she might’ve smothered him.
“I want to watch you touch yourself. Can you do that for me, Freckles?” he said, and the pleading tone in his voice stole whatever air she had left.
She dragged her fingers down her stomach, circling her navel.
“That’s it. A little lower. That is, if you want to go lower.”
“For you, I’ll go lower.”
“Thank you.”
Each word reverberated through her core, turning heat into hunger. His mouth stayed on her, tongue working her open, while her fingers finally grazed her pleasure point. He groaned against her—and only then did she realize he was watching, eyes locked, eating up every reaction.
Instinct told her to shy away, hide herself but the hunger in his gaze bulldozed every ounce of insecurity. Instead of retreating, she did what she’d never let herself do—she took control.
She stroked herself, back and forth, applying more pressure with each pass, while his tongue created its own cadence—deep pulls mixed with barely-there flicks that made her shake. Their rhythms aligned, built, tightened, until her thighs were trembling and the world went white.
She went off like a firework—lift, flare, shatter—then came down in sparks.
When the haze finally cleared, she was on her back and Colter was above her—condom on, body poised.
“Can I—” he started.
“Fuck the niceties and just fuck me.”
They both groaned when he pushed inside. It was perfection.
He was perfection.
The weight of him on her body. The stretch. The way he filled every inch. The gentleness of his palm cupping her cheek before he kissed her like she was his lifeline. She kissed him back, and they found a rhythm instantly.
It was unlike anything she’d ever known—languid and dirty, sensual and unhurried, erotic and tender all at once.
The man knew exactly what he was doing. He was skilled, patient and practiced, almost decadent in the way he used his body. He adjusted pace and pressure like he’d memorized her responses, taking her to the edge, denying her, then doing it again until it was her turn to beg.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “I want to feel you for as long as possible.”
“‘Possible’ is right here.” She arched into him, seeking more. “And here.” She did it again, tightening around him for friction. “And definitely here.”
She felt him smile against her throat. “What about here?”
His next thrust went deeper—much deeper—and she cried out, pleasure cutting clean and sharp. The following stroke she added a twist of her hips, and he was the one groaning.
That was it—game over.
His restraint snapped and he drove into her with a focus that stole her air and rearranged her understanding of sex. They met each other thrust for thrust, chasing the same peak, and suddenly her body wasn’t asking anymore—it was detonating.
Her very first man-made orgasm and—holy hell—she had been missing out. She’d wasted time with boys and Colter Callahan was a man—through and through.
Her whole body was sparking—tight, needy, right on the edge with no way down.
His lips dragged over her ear. “Can I come now?”
The question punched straight through her. “Yes,” she panted. “Fuck—yes.”
That was all it took. His control snapped and he drove into her harder, faster, rough enough to make the couch move back, using her body like the only thing he needed.
Another orgasm ripped through her—sharp, shaking, a helpless clench around his cock—and he snarled when he felt it, thrusting deep as his own release tore out of him.
He poured into the condom with a broken curse, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to hers while they rode out every last pulse.
Dirty, wrecked, spent.