Page 131 of Carrick
My third orgasm slammed into me like a train—violent and bright and too much. My body convulsed, every nerve raw and screaming, tears streaming down my temples into the pillow. I sobbed his name, choking on it. My hands clenched so hard my fingers went numb.
“Please—Carrick… Sir—I can’t?—”
“You’re breaking,” he whispered, kneeling over me now, mouth at my ear, fingers still holding the toy exactly where I needed it and hated it at the same time. “And it’s fucking beautiful.”
He struck me again. The other thigh. I screamed, my entire body bowing. Another orgasm—four now—tore through me. Iwas sobbing, completely untethered, shaking like something sacred had been shattered open.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let it go.”
I didn’t cum that time. I collapsed. It wasn’t an orgasm—it was obliteration. Like I’d been torn apart and remade from scratch, every piece of me rewritten in his hands.
The sobs kept coming even after the toy clicked off. I didn’t even realize he’d untied me until my hands dropped limp to my sides, wrists throbbing from the rope. My legs wouldn’t move. My chest was heaving, skin flushed and damp, thighs still trembling from the aftermath.
I was crying—freely, openly. Not from pain. Not even from release. But because something had finally come loose inside me—some pressure valve buried so deep I hadn’t known how to reach it, hadn’t known how badly I needed it to burst.
Carrick climbed up beside me and pulled me into his arms. I didn’t resist. Couldn’t.
He wrapped me in his warmth, his strength, his breath steady against my hair as he tucked me into his chest and held on like I was something worth keeping. His hands stroked my spine. His lips pressed to my forehead.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My strong, brave girl. You did so fucking good.”
I broke against him, sobbing into his chest, fingers curling into his skin like he was the only thing anchoring me to the world. My body shook with the force of release, every breath ragged, every nerve still buzzing with the aftermath of surrender.
Carrick didn’t rush me. He didn’t speak again. He simply held me—arms firm around my back, one hand stroking slow patterns along my spine, the other cradling the back of my head like I was something precious that needed protecting.
And in that stillness, I realized the truth that had been quietly waiting underneath the wreckage.
I wasn’t just undone. I was held.
Not in spite of my brokenness, but because of it. Because he saw all of it—the tears, the trembling, the pieces of me I usually kept buried—and still chose to stay. Still chose to hold on like I was worth the weight of loving.
And in his arms, I believed it.
I didn’t knowhow long he held me. Time had unraveled somewhere between the third orgasm and the moment my body stopped shaking, and by the time I came back to myself, I was curled against Carrick’s chest, my cheek resting over his heart.
His arms were wrapped tightly around me, one hand splayed over my spine, the other cradling the back of my head like he could protect me from a world that had already done its damage. My skin still tingled, thighs still twitching with aftershocks, but it was the silence that broke me. Not the kind that screamed of absence. The kind that said I was finally safe.
His thumb stroked slow circles at the nape of my neck. No words. No questions. Just the quiet, patient rhythm of care I hadn’t known I needed.
When I finally spoke, my voice was wrecked. Barely there. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”
He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt my face toward his. “Like what?”
“Like… I gave something away and got more back.”
Carrick’s gaze searched mine, his fingers sliding softly down my arm, over the faint rope marks still warming my skin. “Youdidn’t give anything away,” he said quietly. “You just trusted me to hold it.”
That undid me more than anything else. Not the orgasms. Not the tears. Not the breaking. That. Because no one had ever said that before. No one had ever treated my vulnerability as something shared. Something he’d held on my behalf, instead of taken.
I pressed my face into his neck. “You didn’t have to go that far.”
“Yes,” he said, low and certain. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been holding too much for too long. And you needed someone to take it. All of it. Not just the want. Not just the control. The grief. The fear. The guilt. You’ve been carrying it like it’s your cross to bear alone.”
Tears welled again—not sharp this time. Just full. Heavy. Real.
