11. Abigail
ABIGAIL
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper, lips brushing Will’s.
But I don’t stop. Each kiss is hotter than the last, smeared and hungry.
I’m straddling him on my bed, thighs tight around his hips, grinding without meaning to.
My breath hitches as his hands grip my waist, dragging me closer.
The sheets are cool under my knees, but everywhere he touches me feels hot.
The room glows with the amber haze of the bedside lamp, and everything else fades, until it’s just us, breathless and wanting.
“We’re on a case,” I say, but it’s a half-hearted protest. He starts to respond, but I silence him with my mouth, deeper this time, slower, savoring the way his breath catches.
He groans when I shift against him, and I feel it deep in my belly.
His hand slides up my back, slipping under my dress, spreading wide across bare skin.
“I just—” I start.
He pulls away.
“Enough,” he growls. “You want my mouth on you? Say it.”
I swallow hard. The words tremble on my tongue.
“Say it,” he repeats.
I can’t. Saying it feels like surrender, like giving up ground I don’t want to admit he already owns. So I do the only honest thing I can. I hook my fingers in the sides of my underwear, slide them down, and toss them across the room.
“Good enough,” he says.
He flips me onto my back and his hands roam like he owns me. Fingertips glide down my ribs, over my hips, mapping the curve of my waist.
My breath quickens as he lowers himself, mouth brushing the base of my throat, then trailing lower. His hips grind into mine and I feel how thick and hard he is through his trousers. My body answers before I can think, grinding against him, greedy for more.
He pushes the straps of my dress off my shoulders, baring me inch by inch.
His mouth closes over my nipple, tongue circling, teasing while his fingers tug and roll the other.
I arch into him with a needy moan I don’t recognize.
I claw at his shirt, desperate to feel skin, but he’s already kissing lower.
Down my stomach, lips dragging, tongue teasing, until my whole body hums.
He lifts my dress, eyes locked on mine as he exposes me fully.
I freeze for a second. Then his tongue touches me, slow and wicked, and the world disappears.
He parts me with aching precision and then his tongue works in slow circles, savoring every reaction.
When he pushes two fingers inside me, deep and curling, it’s too much.
My hips buck but he presses a hand to my stomach, holding me down.
Everything else vanishes. Every worry, every word.
All that’s left is the press of his fingers and the drag of his tongue.
Pleasure builds until I start to shake. My breath is ragged, my thoughts gone.
Then I come. Hard and sudden. It’s like everything inside me is breaking apart. He doesn’t stop. Not until I’m trembling, wrecked, completely lost beneath him. My fingers twist in his hair. He pulls back, licking his lips, his eyes dark and knowing.
“God, you’re easy,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
I shoot him a glare but he winces. “To please,” he adds. “You’re easy to please.”
I don’t even try to deny it. About three minutes. That’s all it took to unravel me.
He kneels in front of me. I press my thighs together on instinct, not protest.
I look down.
Jesus.
Even through his clothes, he’s huge, thick and straining against the fabric. That arrogant smirk of his? Yeah. Now I get it.
Heat stirs again. I hate how badly I want to know how he feels inside me.
He sees me looking. The teasing fades. His eyes darken with something heavier.
I reach for his shirt, but he grabs my wrist.
“That’s only for women who like me,” he says. “Admit it, and I’m yours.”
And just like that, it breaks. The moment. The illusion.
I’m not admitting I like him. I don’t even know if I do.
I sit up against the headboard, dragging my dress back over my body, breath still unsteady. “You should go. It’s getting late.”
But he doesn’t leave.
Instead, he moves beside me and draws me into him. One arm wraps around my shoulders. His body radiates heat, all muscle and quiet strength, as he guides my face to his chest.
I tense. “What is this?”
“I’m holding you,” he says, calm and sure.
“We don’t do this.”
“We do now.”
I don’t reply.
I let my eyes fall shut, just for a second. His hand drifts over my arm in slow, lazy circles, tracing shapes that leave goosebumps in their wake.
“The case makes things messy,” he says softly. “But we could keep it quiet. Just us.”
“So what, this is some secret fuck-buddy setup?” I scoff. “As if—”
“I didn’t say anything about sex. I meant we could spend time together. Get to know each other. But if you want to go public—”
“We’re not doing anything public,” I cut in. “It would ruin us.”
“Hardly,” he says with a sigh. “But I get it. What do you want to do then?”
“Nothing.”
“Too bad. You’re stuck with me now.”
I roll my eyes. But the warmth that blooms in my chest says otherwise.
Oh god. What am I doing?
I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him like this.
But the heat curls low in my belly anyway.
“Which side of the bed’s mine?” he asks.
“You’re not staying.”
“Maybe not tonight—”
“Not ever.” I sit up and smooth down my dress. “Time to go.”
I walk him to the door. He pauses, hand on the frame, and asks, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I lie.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I press both hands to my burning cheeks.
That was reckless. Stupid.
Lust got the better of me. That’s all. I scratched the itch, but that won’t happen again.
I refuse to be some Pavlovian idiot who melts every time Will Carter crooks a finger.