Page 129 of Carrick
But he wouldn’t let me finish.
That was the lesson. That was the mercy.
I heard the soft click of a case opening, followed by the quiet clink of something glass being set beside me. Then his voice, low and intimate, feathered against my ear.
“Color?”
My throat scraped. “Green.”
He exhaled slowly, his breath warm where it ghosted over my cheek. “Good girl.”
Those two words licked fire down my spine—soothing, anchoring, but burning in all the right places.
Then I heard it.
A high, electric hum—sharp and strange. Not the vibrator. The wand. My breath caught, and my stomach fluttered as my body responded before my brain could catch up.
He didn’t touch me right away. He let the sound fill the space between us, crawling over my skin like a promise. Then I felt the first contact: a cool, delicate stroke over my breast, followed by a sudden, precise crackle of energy. A jolt. A sting. Like lightning trapped beneath my skin.
I gasped—sharp and high—and he moaned quietly in response, like my pain fed him. “That’s it.”
The wand moved slowly over my body, trailing sparks across the arc of my hip, the tender slope of my stomach, the delicate skin beneath my arm where I couldn’t flinch away. It was like being touched by fireflies—tiny stings of heat that lit me up and made me chase them.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t overwhelm. Just slowly unraveled me, layer by layer, with maddening precision. Wand on, wand off. A flick over my nipple. A pause. A drag between my thighs that stopped just shy of mercy. His voice followed every movement like a second sensation.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmured.
I whimpered, body twisting.
“I know it’s a lot,” he said, dragging the current closer to my core, hovering just above the place I needed him most. “But you’re going to take all of it for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, Sir, please?—”
The wand kissed my clit with a single snap of heat.
I cried out, hips jerking against the restraints.
“Still,” he said, sharp and firm.
“I—I can’t?—”
“You can.” Gentler now. “You are.”
And I was. Barely.
The sensations blurred into each other—sweet, blistering pleasure tangled with pressure and denial. His voice coiled around the need pulsing at my core. My body shook, soaked in sweat, maybe tears. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was the ache. The raw, desperate ache to come.
And still he held me there. Balanced on the edge. Exposed. Ruined.
I sobbed his name, begging, every word breaking apart. “Please, Sir—please let me?—”
And then he turned it off.
Silence slammed into me.
And I shattered.
The sob came from somewhere deeper than sound. It ripped through my chest like something long-buried finally clawing its way out. It wasn’t sadness. It was release. Grief. Need. A lifetime of swallowing things down, finally spilling over.
