Page 171 of Carrick
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my leggings and slid them down slowly, baring inch after inch of flushed skin. My thighs were slick, my breath uneven, and when the fabric finally pooled at my feet, I stepped free—left in nothing but a soaked strip of black lace clinging low on my hips. I didn’t look away from him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He said nothing, but the way he watched me said everything.
Carrick stood still, jaw clenched, gaze dragging over me like it was a promise he wasn’t ready to keep. He took me in with the reverence of a man starving—allowed to see, forbidden to touch—and somehow that ache, that restraint, undid me more than any filthy praise ever could. His eyes lingered on the line of my throat, the swell of my breasts, the place where wet lace met trembling thigh. And every second he didn’t move, every breath he didn’t take, carved the ache deeper.
The silence between us wasn’t empty. It was deliberate. Designed. A slow, sacred torment. Because he wasn’t just looking at me. He was memorizing me—for later ruin, for future worship—and God help me, I wanted to be ruined just like that.
I reached behind me, fingers trembling, to unclasp my bra. His voice sliced through the air. “Leave it on.” I froze. My breath hitched. My hands stilled at my back.
His eyes were fire—molten and sharp. “You don’t get to be fully naked yet.” His voice dropped lower, dangerous. Intimate. “That’s a privilege. One you earn.”
A pulse hit hard between my thighs—sudden, deep, dizzying. Carrick moved toward me with the slow, certain swagger of a man who already owned the outcome. Shirtless. Barefoot. Unbothered. Power clung to him like heat—stitched into his breath, his steps, the space around him. He circled once, close enough for the warmth of him to skim my skin.
His fingers skimmed the edge of my panties, a whisper of contact that sent my entire body coiled tight—but he didn’t press. Didn’t give. He stopped behind me, his breath grazing the back of my neck.
“Hands behind your back.”
I moved without thinking, spine straightening, chest arching, presenting myself in the lace bra he’d told me not to remove. My nipples strained against the fabric—taunt and tease in one. I buzzed with tension, exposed and waiting, completely undone by restraint alone.
His breath grazed my ear, low and filthy and mine. “Is this what you needed?” he murmured. “To be stripped down, broken open, fucked until you forget your name?”
A broken sound escaped my throat—a whimper, a moan, a plea. He reached down. His hand cupped me over my panties—firm, claiming pressure right where I was already soaked. The heel of his palm ground into my clit just enough to make my knees tremble.
“Already soaked for me,” he said, voice like warm whiskey over sandpaper. “You walked in here like you were falling apart. But this—” he pressed harder, “this part of you knows exactly who it belongs to.”
I gasped, hips twitching against his palm. He didn’t move. Didn’t let up. Just held me there. “Say it.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my throat. But my mouth still gave him the truth. “You. I belong to you.”
“Damn right, you do.” He released me, stepping back. The sudden emptiness—his heat gone, his hand gone—felt like a punishment.
I nearly cried out.
“On the bed,” he said. “On your back. Legs open. Hands at your sides. And don’t even think about touching yourself.”
I climbed onto the bed, my legs unsteady, heart pounding so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. The sheets were cool, but I was burning. I lay back, every nerve exposed, every breath ragged. My thighs clenched tight like I could trap the need there. Contain it. I couldn’t.
Carrick turned to his bag, pulled out something black and sinfully sleek. He didn’t need to hold it up—I knew that shape, that low, dangerous hum. The vibrator. My pulse stuttered. My body remembered.
He set it beside me on the bed like a promise. Then something else—a coiled strip of black leather, smooth and sharp. The crop.
My mouth went dry.
He approached slowly. Climbed onto the bed and straddled my thighs. Pressed one hand flat against my sternum, pinning me to the mattress like he could feel my heartbeat rattling against my ribs. His eyes locked on mine, dark and unyielding. “I’m going to take you apart,” he said. “Bit by bit. Until you’re shaking. Crying. Begging.”
A strangled sound escaped me.
He leaned in, his breath brushing my lips. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
I whimpered.
“You don’t come until I say. Don’t even try.” His voice was steel wrapped in silk—unforgiving, precise. Then he kissed me—slower now, deeper. A claiming. A promise. His tongue swept into my mouth with quiet control, already preparing me for the way he’d fuck me. His palm stayed firm against my chest, anchoring me, owning me. By the time he pulled back, I was trembling. He sat back, calm and in command, and picked up the toy. A single press. A low, steady buzz filled the room like a warning—quiet, lethal, final.
Carrick slid my panties aside, not off—just enough to expose me. The fabric clung, soaked through, framing every swollen, aching inch.
And then he brought the toy down.
The second it touched my clit, I gasped. My hips jerked violently, helpless to the sudden flood of pleasure. “Uh-uh,” he murmured, his free hand slamming down onto my thigh to pin me in place. “Don’t move.” I whimpered, the sound half-strangled.
“You take what I give you, Bellamy. You stay right here.” The pressure wasn’t hard—but it didn’t have to be.
