Page 172 of Carrick
The toy pulsed in tight, devastating rhythms, circling just off-center, then landing squarely on the peak of my clit until my entire body seized with need. Pleasure shot through me like a live wire. My toes curled. My breath shattered into stuttering gasps.
And Carrick just watched. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch me anywhere else. He simply held the toy steady and studied me—like he was memorizing the exact moment my mind went under. When words disappeared. When I stopped being anything but his.
His hand on my thigh was a brand, anchoring me, while the vibrator dragged me closer to the edge. My hips trembled. The orgasm built low and brutal, wrapping around every muscle, ready to snap—and just when it did, when release surged to the surface—he pulled it away.
I screamed—part curse, part sob, part wrecked, guttural plea. “God—Carrick?—!”
“Shhh,” he said calmly. “Not yet. You haven’t earned it.” His mouth replaced the toy a moment later, lips parting against my inner thigh. He kissed me there. Softly. Then lower. Then lower. His tongue found my clit, slow and teasing, the wet flick making my hips arch off the bed again before his hand pressed me flat.
“Stay down,” he murmured against me.
His fingers ghosted over my entrance, never pushing in—just circling, teasing, coaxing my body into madness. Each pass fanned the hunger higher, until I shook from the tension, from the brutal beauty of being left empty. He gave me nothing but need—and somehow; it was everything.
His tongue moved with devastating rhythm, slow and merciless, and I writhed beneath him, barely able to breathe. My arms trembled. My thighs jerked. I was a live wire stretched too tight, every nerve lit and pleading.
When he pulled back—again—I nearly cried. I was soaked, ruined, panties twisted low on one hip, slick smeared between my thighs and across the sheets. I could feel my arousal everywhere, a pulse beneath my skin.
Carrick knelt between my legs like sin incarnate, the toy still in his hand, his face composed—but his eyes burned like fire pressed to flesh. When the vibrator met my clit again, my body snapped taut. A scream lodged in my throat. The effort to obey, to hold back, scorched through me so violently I thought I might come from the restraint alone.
And still he watched, gaze sharp and unrelenting, lips twitching with the barest hint of a smirk. His eyes were feral. “Look at you,” he said, voice rough as sin. “Desperate. So fucking pretty when you beg without even realizing you’re doing it.”
I whimpered, eyes glassy. “Please—please, I can’t!”
“You can,” he growled, voice dropping to something dark and final. “And you will.”
The toy vanished, and the loss ripped a cry from my throat—sharp, desperate, like a punishment in itself. My hips jerked, hunting for friction, for any kind of mercy, but Carrick didn’t give it. No soothing. No comfort. Just a slow reach for the crop, and the promise of what came next.
The soft slap of leather shifting in his palm made my breath catch. Smooth. Coiled. Controlled. He trailed the flat end along the inside of my thigh, slow and teasing, the whisper of sensation enough to make me shiver. Then came a single tap—gentle, but firm enough to make my skin buzz. I flinched. My thighs twitched. He smiled.
“You want release, sweetheart?” His voice curled over the question, dark and promising. “Then you’re going to earn it.”
Another tap. Sharper this time. Not cruel, but stinging—just enough to make my breath stutter and my pussy clench in response. “Spread your legs.”
I obeyed. My thighs fell open like they belonged to him. I was panting again, soaked and aching, my body thrumming with need—and he still hadn’t fucked me. He laid the crop across my stomach. Cool leather against flushed, burning skin. I could feel its weight, the threat it carried, the promise of what came next.
Then, steady and slow, he hooked his fingers into the drenched scrap of lace between my legs and peeled it away. The soaked fabric dragged over sensitive skin with a slick, obscene sound.
Carrick hissed through his teeth, a low, reverent sound that said everything his words didn’t. “Fuck me,” he murmured, his voice scraping low across the air. “Look at you, Bellamy. Absolutely dripping.”
He knelt back on his heels to admire the mess between my thighs, my skin flushed and glistening with want. “All of this,” he said, tracing a knuckle up the inside of my thigh. “From being denied. Just from me telling you no. That’s what does it, huh? My good girl gets soaking wet just knowing she’s not allowed to cum.”
I bit my lip hard, trying not to moan.
His eyes darkened. “You know what I see when I look at you like this?” He picked up the crop and tapped the outside of mythigh just hard enough to make me shiver. “A sweet, obedient girl, so desperate to be ruined the right way.”
My whole body clenched.
“Color?” he asked, tone dipping into something deep and coaxing, the edge of danger softened by care.
“Green,” I gasped.
His grin turned feral. All teeth. No mercy. “Good.”
The first strike landed across my inner thigh, fast and precise. A sharp kiss of leather against skin that stole the air from my lungs. The sting bloomed instantly—bright, perfect, laced with heat.
Carrick moved in close, crouching until his mouth brushed my ear. “Breathe through it,” he whispered. “That’s all you have to do. Take it for me.”
The next blow followed—measured, controlled—then another. Each one deliberate, synced to the rhythm of my breath. He layered heat along the inside of my thighs, building it stroke by stroke, until my whole body was trembling from the effort of holding position. It wasn’t just pain. It was power. Freedom.
