Page 173 of Carrick
Every strike stripped something away—fear, noise, control—until there was nothing left but the place where he touched me and the need he built inside me. My head fell back, lips parted around a ragged breath as the sob slipped free. And still, I held. For him.
“Such a good girl,” he said, voice reverent now as his fingers traced the blooming welts. “Taking every stroke like it’s something sacred.” He leaned down and kissed the marks—gentle, open-mouthed kisses against burning skin. “My good girl.”
My chest cracked wide open. A sob left me, thick and helpless. “Yours.”
His eyes locked with mine. “Say it again.”
“Yours.” My voice trembled. “Carrick—please—yours.”
The crop hit the floor with a soft thud, and then he was on me—his mouth crashing into mine with a hunger that devoured, claimed, demanded more than I had left. He pulled me upright like I weighed nothing, dragging me into his lap so fast I gasped.
My legs wrapped around him on instinct, locking behind his back as my arms reached for his shoulders. But he didn’t give me time to hold on. His hands gripped my ass, fingers digging into the bruises he’d left there, drawing a cry from my throat as he ground me hard against his lap.
I could feel him—thick and pulsing, still trapped behind his pants but pressed so perfectly against me that every shift of his hips dragged my clit along the length of him. The friction was slow, devastating, and I was already wrecked.
“Feel that?” he growled into my neck. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”
I whimpered, helpless, as he rocked me again—his cock grinding against the slick heat between my thighs, making my body tighten all over again.
“You walked into my room shaking,” he murmured, his voice dark and rough. “Needing to fall apart. And now look at you—soaked and trembling because I made you wait. Because you needed to be owned.”
The sound that left me was more sob than moan, high and wrecked and raw.
“You’re going to cum for me tonight, Bellamy.” He bit down gently on my shoulder. “But only when I let you.”
My forehead dropped to his, our breath mingling—hot, desperate, laced with everything we weren’t saying. “I want to be good,” I whispered, voice trembling. “I want to?—”
“You already are.”
The words hit like a prayer—soft, reverent, achingly tender. Nothing like the man who’d just marked me with his crop,claimed me like sin made sacred. Something inside me cracked wide open, the last piece finally giving in. That alone could’ve undone me.
“You don’t have to hold anything in,” he murmured, brushing his nose against mine. “Not here. Not with me.”
I nodded, blinking fast, lips trembling around another soundless plea. Carrick pulled back just enough to speak in that voice—low and commanding, a blend of dominance and sanctuary that wrapped around me like a vow.
“Lie back.” I obeyed without hesitation, spine melting into the mattress as the breath hitched in my throat.
“Legs open.” My body answered before my mind could catch up—trembling, flushed, slick with need and utterly exposed. Exactly how he wanted me.
“Eyes on me.” My gaze snapped to his as he spoke, even as my face burned, even as my thighs twitched from holding tension and raw, unbearable need.
Carrick moved between them—slow, lethal, sure. He didn’t kneel like a man preparing to fuck me. He knelt like a man ready to worship the ruin he was about to make. His eyes were wild, dark, consumed—like he was at the edge of something sacred, and I was the altar he was about to desecrate.
The toy buzzed to life again in his hand, low and cruel. “Now,” he said, voice thick with sin and certainty, “we start over.”
And I knew then—he wouldn’t hold back. Not tonight. The toy touched my clit and my body jolted, already too raw, too ready, nerves lit like fuses. He kept the rhythm slow. Then fast. Then maddeningly slow again. Torture in its most elegant form. Denial as devotion. Pleasure weaponized.
Time broke. Minutes, hours, lifetimes blurred into moans and choked gasps, into a body wrecked by want. My voice was gone, my thighs quaked, and I was nothing but his—spreadopen, used, soaked. He had reduced me to need. Wrung me out on the altar of control.
Still, he didn’t let me fall. Still, he made me wait. I begged. Whispered. Sobbed. Words fractured in my throat. “Please... Carrick... I need it—I need you—please!”
My thighs spasmed. My stomach clenched. Slick ran down the curves of my ass, pooling beneath me, soaking the sheets with the proof of my undoing. He turned the toy off. I nearly screamed at the loss. At the cruelty of it. At the hunger that clawed like an animal in my chest.
Then he was there—leaning over me, one arm braced beside my head, the other sliding up to curl gently around my throat. Not tight. Just there. A promise. A leash made of want. “Look at me.”
Eyes wet, breath shattered, I looked—and the gaze that met mine burned everything else away. Fierce. Ravenous.Mine.
“You’ve been so good for me,” he said, voice thick with gravel and heat—like smoke curling over raw steel, frayed at the edges from holding back too long. “So fucking good, Bellamy. Taking everything I gave you and begging for more.” His hand moved lower, fingertips dragging down the center of my chest, between the curve of my breasts, over the bruises he’d painted, the welts he’d worshipped. It wasn’t possession. It was reverence.
