Page 165 of Carrick
Just eyes—dark, wild, storm-soaked with need—and that rigid line of her spine like she was barely holding the pressure in.
“You’re going to finish what you started,” she said.
Her voice was low, like smoke curling through a match-lit room. Dangerous. Commanding. It lit me the fuck up.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t challenge her. I just stepped forward and reached for the edge of that blanket, watching her eyes track every movement like prey trying to out-stare the predator. I tugged the blanket loose—slow, deliberate—letting it fall from her shoulders and puddle to the floor like an offering.
“You think you’re in charge now?” I murmured. I wasn’t mocking her. Hell, I wasn’t even trying to reassert control. I just wanted to hear what she’d say.
Bellamy lifted her chin, full of challenge. That dark tank top hugged her like a second skin, thin enough to reveal the stiff peaks of her nipples and the rise and fall of her already shaky breath.Her shorts were riding up high on those perfect thighs, and her whole body hummed with tension. Not nervousness. Anticipation.
“Carrick,” she said, and my name—just my name—sounded like she was breaking open. “Please.” That one word slammed through me like a shockwave. Not because it was submissive. But because it was honest. Because she was handing herself over, breathless and burning and reckless.
I stepped in and let my knuckles graze her throat, dragging them lightly along the warm skin there. She tilted her head into the touch, lashes fluttering, mouth parting like she needed it—like just the graze of my fingers was already unmaking her.
God, I was already gone for her.
“Take your shirt off,” I said, voice low and taut. She obeyed instantly, fingers slipping beneath the hem and peeling it upward, revealing inch after inch of flushed skin. The curve of her waist. The smooth valley between her breasts. She dropped it to the floor without fanfare.
“No bra,” I noted, unable to keep the hunger from my voice.
She arched an eyebrow. “I planned ahead.”
That earned her a growl. A real one. Deep in my chest, half-civilized.
My hand slid around her waist as I stepped in. My other hand fisted gently in her hair, tilting her head up so she had to meet my eyes.
“I hope you stretched, sweetheart,” I murmured. “Because I’m not letting you sleep tonight.”
Her smirk curled slow and wicked. “I wasn’t planning to.”
I backed her toward the bed one slow step at a time, keeping that tension tight between us. She moved with me, fluid and sure, her hands sliding up my chest, her pupils blown wide with need.
Then she turned. Climbed onto the mattress on her hands and knees, looking over her shoulder like she already knew she was inviting her own destruction. And I was about to give it to her—slow and hard, with every ounce of restraint I had left, not to hold back but to make it last, to draw it out until she was trembling, wrecked, and begging for more.
I followed her onto the bed and leaned down, lips grazing her spine. She shivered as I kissed lower. And lower. And lower still. She gasped when my mouth met her thigh. Moaned when I slid her shorts down and off. Then I flipped her gently onto her back, took one long look at the need written across her face—and put my mouth where she needed it most.
She broke. Soft, strangled sounds. Legs trembling. Fingertips clawing at the sheets. I didn’t stop. Didn’t give her achance to rebuild herself. Just devoured her like it was the only thing keeping me alive. And when she came—loud and shaking, fingers tangled in my hair—I kept going until she was begging.
I crawled up beside her, kissed her slow, deep, and dirty, and whispered against her lips, “Told you I’d finish what I started.”
Her laugh was breathless. Wrecked. “Do it again.”
Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’ve just asked for.
She flung one hand over her face like the world had tilted and taken her name with it, breath still unsteady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that hadn’t caught up to the rest of her. I lay beside her, propped on one elbow, just watching—her skin flushed, lips parted, every inch of her still echoing with the aftershock of what we’d done.
“You alive?” I asked, voice rough around the edges.
She peeled her fingers away from her eyes and looked at me. “I can’t feel my legs,” she said.
I grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her laugh came soft, hoarse. “That wasn’t edging. That was torture.”
I trailed a finger down the center of her chest, slow and deliberate, drawing lazy spirals across skin that still radiated heat from everything I’d just put her through. “Sweetheart,” I murmured, my voice a rough scrape of satisfaction and warning, “that was edging. You haven’t even seen what torture looks like yet.”
Her groan was somewhere between a laugh and a threat. She flopped an arm over her face again, like she needed protection.
