Page 44 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I smirk, not because I’m calm—because I’m seconds from shattering. “Yes.”

His hand moves. Slow. Torturously so. Fingers brushing the inside of my thigh, just barely grazing me. It’s gentle, like he’s asking for permission—but we both know permission was never part of this.

“You have this…” he murmurs, his voice a whisper against my ear as his fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear.

His fingers skim along my folds, featherlight, barely making contact. It sends a sharp and electric sensation through me. I’m throbbing, aching, so aware of the heat pooling between my legs that I can’t think straight. The light brush of his knuckles against my clit makes my hips jerk, a low gasp escaping my lips.

“All this,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers gently up and down, teasing the slickness there, “for someone you hate?”

His touch is maddening—lazy, arrogant, like he knows exactly how desperate I am for more. Like he’s in no rush. He draws small circles with his thumb, pressing just enough to send sparks up my spine, but not nearly enough to satisfy. I can feel how wet I am for him, and he knows it. Fucking bastard.

“Shut up,” I whisper, but it’s a breathless sound, more plea than threat. I shift my hips, grinding against his hand, chasing pressure, friction, anything.

He chuckles, dark and low, his mouth near my neck. “Not yet.”

I can’t sit still. I’m vibrating with want, hips shifting with a mind of their own. My breath hitches, body twitching against the seat as his fingers dip deeper, the tips curling just enough to make my toes curl. It’s not enough. It’s never fucking enough. I press down harder against him, grinding into his hand like I can pull more from him, like I can make him feel just how desperate I am.

Both of my hands shoot down, grabbing his forearm, fingers tightening around the muscle and veins beneath his skin. I grip him like he’s the only thing keeping me together—his arm firm and steady as his hand works me open, teasing me with maddening control.

Then his fingers slide inside me, and I break. My back arches, my head falls against the seat, and a sharp, guttural moan rips from my throat, echoing loud and filthy through the SUV. I feel him groan against my neck like my reaction wrecks him too, and his hand keeps going—he moves deeper, firmer, making sure I feel every goddamn inch of him.

“So wet,” he growls into my throat. His teeth graze my skin. “And you hate me, hm?”

I can’t answer. My mouth is open, but no sound comes out. Just these broken breaths, these gasps that don’t sound like me.

His lips trail up my jaw, hot and open, searing every inch of skin he touches. He doesn’t kiss—he claims, mouth dragging slow and wet up to the hinge of my jaw, then along the curve of my ear. His breath fans out across my skin, warm and wicked, and it makes my toes curl inside my boots. I clutch his arm tighter, both hands wrapped around the thick muscle of his forearm like I can anchor myself there, like I can hold myself together while he’s pulling me apart.

His fingers curl deeper, dragging inside me with that maddening precision that makes my stomach tighten and my thighs shake. I can feel how soaked I am, how every pulse of pressure sends fire licking up my spine. My hips roll instinctively, chasing that friction, greedy for it—needing it like oxygen. The sound that escapes me is raw, broken, needy, and I hate how much I love the way he hears it.

"You feel that?" he murmurs low against my ear, his teeth grazing my skin. "How tight you are for me? How perfect you feel wrapped around my fingers?"

I choke on a moan, my nails digging into his arm, holding him there, grounding myself in the hard flex of his forearm as he fucks me with his fingers like he owns me. "Fuck," I gasp, the word tearing from me, raw and breathless. "Fuck, that feels so good."

His fingers curl again, stroking the spot inside me that makes my vision blur. "You love this, don’t you?" he growls near my ear. "Love being split open on my hand, so fucking wet for me."

"Yes," I whimper, grinding against him. "Don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop."

He doesn’t. He gives me more, deeper, rougher, until my whole body is trembling and my breath is nothing but broken sobs of pleasure. The heat inside me coils tighter, sharp and electric, threatening to snap. I squeeze his arm harder, nails digging in, and my thighs begin to shake, helpless under the force of what’s coming.

“Fuck, Lazaro,” I cry out, voice high and wrecked. “I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, curling his fingers just right. “Come for me, Calla. Let go.”

And I do.

The climax crashes through me like a lightning strike—sudden, all-consuming. My hips jerk against his hand, and I scream, loud and raw and shameless as my walls pulse around his fingers. Pleasure rips through my nerves in waves, and I collapse forward, gasping, trembling, completely undone.

I look at him, panting, my body still trembling from the aftershocks of release. There’s a wild, feral look in his eyes—pure heat and need—and it punches the breath out of my lungs. That look alone makes my core throb again, desperate all over. My fingers move without thought, reaching for his belt with shaking urgency, like I’m starving for the feel of him inside me next.

I curl my fingers around his cock, hot and thick and pulsing in my palm, and he groans—low, filthy, like the sound’s been ripped from his chest. His hips jerk up into my grip, instinctive and desperate. I feel the way his body reacts, how hard he is for me, how fucking ready. I stroke him slowly at first, just to watch him fall apart a little. My thumb drags across the tip, smearing the precum leaking there, and his head drops forward, breath panting hot into my hair.

“Fuck, Calla,” he growls, voice rough and wrecked. “Keep going.”

I do. I pump him harder, tighter, wrapping both hands around the length of him, twisting at the wrist the way I know he would like. He’s panting now, every breath a broken sound, every muscle in his thighs flexing beneath me like he’s seconds from losing it.

“Say you need me,” I whisper, voice low and dripping heat, and he growls, hips stuttering.

His cock twitches in my hands, thick and throbbing, and it’s the most addictive thing I’ve ever touched.

---