I’m Not Holding Back #2
He kicked the door shut behind him, balancing a tray in one hand and something hot and steaming in the other. He sat on the edge of the bed and settled the tray on his lap.
“Tomorrow. I can still feel the pain from you, but it’s significantly better.”
“That feels intrusive.”
“Blame the bond.” He handed me a bowl. Potato soup with smoked meat and peas.
“It’s been weeks.”
“A week.”
“A week and a half.”
“A week and a day,” he said, pleasantly.
I picked a strawberry from the fruit bowl and threw it at him. He moved his head an inch, and it passed. He didn’t even look.
Somewhere during the meal, he had migrated from the edge of the bed to sit beside me. When I had eaten enough to satisfy him, he set the tray on the nightstand and put his arm around my shoulder. I lifted so he could.
I settled against his chest. His heartbeat was steady and nearly lulled me to sleep.
“You’re so beautiful.” He looked down at me, fingers grazing my cheek. “I never stood a chance.”
His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth. It was sticky from the fruit.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, breath hovering over my lips.
Guilt etched painfully across his features, and I needed to make it go away.
I tilted up and kissed him.
His hand moved to my jaw and deepened it, mouth opening over mine. I tasted honey and warmth and whatever was specifically him. I pulled at his shoulders, and he followed when I leaned back. His weight was careful over my abdomen.
The kiss turned urgent quickly before settling into something hungrier.
His teeth caught my lower lip and gave it a gentle tug.
I arched up and pressed against him, and he groaned against my mouth.
Everything in me wanted more. More contact, more pressure, more of him specifically. And he was giving me none of it. Every move he made was gentle and annoyingly considerate of my abdomen.
His hand trailed from my hair down my throat, across my collarbone, and brushed past where I needed it to be. His fingers rested at the side of my breast as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Always so gods damned noble.
I inhaled sharply. “You need to touch me.” It was not a request. Not even close. “Caelan—”
He kissed the sound off my lips, swallowing the gasp I made as his hips settled between my thighs. Those clever hands moved back up, his thumb circling my hardened nipple through the fabric.
I arched into it desperately, heat coiling tight and low.
He pressed open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and down my neck. Fingers tugged the strap of my nightgown off a shoulder. My hands went into his hair, pushing him lower until he took my breast into his mouth. Tongue teasing the hardened peak.
The ache in my core turned desperate, and I nearly choked on the moan that came out of me. I pressed up against the hard line of him. He groaned low and tugged my other nipple with his free hand. The two sensations together were shattering in a way that had no preparation.
I reached for the ties of his trousers.
His hand caught my wrist, and he pulled back enough to look at me. Eyes dark from blown pupils.
“No,” he said, breathless. He pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “I know what you want, but you’re still hurting. I can feel it through the bond.”
Disappointment burned through the desire.
“You could be gentle,” I whispered, voice smaller than I meant it to be.
He exhaled like it cost him and pressed his forehead to mine.
“I’m not going to be gentle when I finally claim you.”
The words sent a fresh wave of need through me.
“Not tonight.” His voice low. “Not when every movement still hurts you. When the time comes, when I sink into you and make you mine, I’m going to fuck you until your thighs shake and you scream my name.”
I had never heard him speak like that. I was storing it permanently for repeated review.
He leaned in, lips brushing mine. “But tonight,” he murmured against my mouth, “I just want to taste you. Feel you come apart in my hands.”
His hands found the hem of my nightgown, lifting slowly until it went over my head. Then he straightened, his knees on the mattress, eyes raking over my exposed body.
I had scars across my abdomen. Scattered over the skin like silver stars. People tended to strike torsos rather than limbs. I braced for whatever expression would land on his face. I expected pity or maybe even disgust.
He looked at me like I was extraordinary. His eyes traced over each scar, mouth parted slightly, a softness in his eyes that made it difficult to look away.
His teeth caught his lower lip, and I could see him harden even more beneath the fabric.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His eyes lifted to mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My sternum pressed into my chest. Probably from the breath that he stole out of me.
He leaned down over me and planted open-mouthed kisses on every scar on my body. My stomach flexed when his lips grazed the sensitive skin on my sides.
I was breathing way too hard, and he hadn’t even touched me where I ached most yet.
When his finger traced over the fabric I knew was soaked, I forgot how to breathe.
“Gods, you’re so wet already,” he said against my thighs. “Dripping just from my mouth on you.”
My breathing stopped being reliable somewhere around the first sentence.
Fingers hooked around the sides of my underwear, and he tugged them off slowly. Kisses were planted along their path until they were off.
I tracked every kiss and tried to stay still, but my hips were not getting the message.
A moment was taken for him to appreciate the view. He hummed thoughtfully.
The way his eyes lingered should have made me shy away, close my legs. But the adoration and softness in them had me transfixed.
He reached for his own shirt and pulled it over his head.
I looked.
I had earned the moment to really look.
He had a body that was built from defending a border for nearly a century rather than delegating it. From every spar, every hour spent in the training yard. Hard lines defined his stomach, the muscles of his chest and shoulders rippling whenever he moved.
This was unfair to all of humanity.
His fingers wrapped around my wrist and he guided my hand to his stomach, pressed it flat against the muscles before dragging it downward.
Oh.
My mouth parted as I felt every bump and ridge of flesh. He stopped just before the hem of his pants.
I dragged my gaze back up to his face.
“Done?” he asked.
“Y-yes,” I said as unfazed as possible and failed entirely.
He smiled, too satisfied with himself.
I was going to say something clever until he moved downward, his arms slipping under my thighs again.
When his mouth found me, I stopped being able to track a coherent thought. An involuntary shiver left me as my hands clutched the sheets.
His tongue worked slowly at first. Flattening, dragging from my entrance to my clit in one long lick that made my hips buck. He groaned against me, the sound vibrating the nerves. A finger ran along the entrance, gathering the moisture there before sinking in.
A soft moan fell from my lips, stopping short when I tried not offer him too much before he became smug about it.
As if unsatisfied with my lack of reaction, he added a finger and curled them, immediately finding the spot most men failed to pinpoint.
His mouth left me momentarily and he angled his head to look up at me.
My hand found his hair and made my disapproval known.
Attentive blue eyes watched my every reaction. What he was doing was making it impossible to keep a straight face.
He withdrew his fingers and pushed back in and pulled out again with the same curl, hitting the spot over and over. Deliberately slow.
I clenched involuntarily for more, and I forgot to control the sound that he dragged out of me.
His mouth continued its work on my clit, tongue flicking against it in sync with his fingers.
My hands flew to his shoulders and gripped. “Gods. Please. Please—”
I was begging, and I didn’t care in the slightest. He could be smug all he wanted about it.
His hand worked without mercy. Pumping into me as wet sounds filled the quiet room. The other moved up my stomach and found my nipple.
I gripped his hair, my hips bucking up to his face desperately.
He licked faster, sucking my clit into his mouth.
My thighs started to shake on his shoulders, and the orgasm crashed through hard. My body locked tight and pulsed in waves.
I called his name, voice broken and way too loud.
He groaned against me, feeling it through the bond. When he slowed, his fingers didn’t leave. Instead, he withdrew them slowly and then drove them back in at the same pace.
The pleasure was already rebuilding.