Page 175 of Carrick
My hands fisted at his shoulders, nails digging deep. My body writhed beneath him, desperate, undone. “I’m yours,” I sobbed, breathless. “I’m yours! Please—please!”
He dropped his mouth to my ear and growled, “Now.”
The orgasm hit like an earthquake. My scream ripped free, raw and feral, as I shattered beneath him—back arched, limbs trembling, nerves lighting up in brilliant, unbearable waves. I pulsed around his cock, convulsing through pleasure so massive it broke me open from the inside.
This wasn’t just a climax. It wasallof them—every edge he’d denied me, every tremor of need wound tight beneath my skin, every ache of surrender erupting in one devastating, obliterating flood.
Carrick didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, riding every quake like he owned it, like he was branding me from the inside. Even as I sobbed through the pleasure, he kept going—deep, controlled, ruthless—like my release had only made him hungrier.
Then the rhythm shifted, becoming harder, rougher. His breath came in ragged gasps against my throat. “Fuck! Bellamy—fuck!” His body locked, tense and wild, and then he came with a growl, cock buried to the hilt, grinding so deep it felt like he was trying to fuse us together. The heat of it flooded me, thick pulses that pushed me into a final, trembling aftershock.
He collapsed over me, face buried in my neck like he needed to disappear into my skin, to hide in the wreckage he’d created.
We didn’t move. I couldn’t move, and I didn’t want to. His weight anchored me, solid and protective, a quiet claim pressed into my skin. My legs trembled, chest fluttered, and tears slipped free—silent, unashamed, born not of pain, but of release. Of being held. Of finally being seen.
He didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go. Just stayed inside me, thick and twitching, while his arms wrapped around me like armor. “You came so hard,” he murmured, voice hoarse against my skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod against his shoulder, face pressed to his neck as I tried to breathe. Tried to make sense of the ruins of myself in his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re mine.”
My eyes slipped closed, and for the first time all day, I exhaled without trembling. Wrapped in Carrick’s arms, I couldn’t tell where my body ended and his began. Everything was heat and slick skin, breath and heartbeat, trying to find the same rhythm.
I floated, limbs boneless, chest still rising in uneven waves. My thighs twitched from the aftershocks of everything he’d done to me—everything I’d given him. I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the stillness cocooned around us like something holy.
His lips brushed my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. Each kiss was quiet, reverent. Not about lust or ownership, just the devotion that asked nothing and offered everything. “You did so good for me,” he whispered, voice like silk over gravel. “So perfect, Bellamy. Just… fuck. Perfect.”
I didn’t answer. I just turned my face into the curve of his neck and breathed him in—salt, sweat, leather, heat. And something softer underneath it all. Something that felt like safety. “I’m going to take care of you now,” he said softly, reverently. “You stay right here.”
He kissed my forehead, lips lingering as if anchoring us both, and I felt the shift in him—no longer just the Dominant who had unraveled me with heat and power, but the man who now held me together with quiet reverence. And I let him. Because no onehad ever held me like this before. Because I didn’t want anyone else to.
When he finally pulled out, it was slow, deliberate, a gentle unmaking. His mouth brushed my cheek as I whimpered at the loss. Across the room, he moved with quiet purpose, shoulders still coiled with tension, but softened now by something almost tender. The storm had passed, and already, he was gathering the wreckage, shaping it into something sacred.
He returned with a warm cloth and water, knelt beside me like a ritual. “You with me?”
I nodded, voice frayed. “Yeah.”
He cleaned me gently, between my legs, over my thighs, with reverent care, wiping away the evidence like I was something breakable. Beloved. When he was satisfied, he tossed the rag into the hamper before pulling back the blankets and gently helping me slid into them.
Then he slid beneath the blankets and curled behind me, his arms a shelter around my waist. I melted into him, breath catching as his chest pressed to my spine. He was solid and quiet, the shape of safety, the answer to every storm I had survived.
“Your body’s still shaking,” he murmured. “That was a lot.”
“It was what I needed,” I whispered. “Exactly what I needed.”
He didn’t sayI told you so. He just held me tighter. One hand stroked up and down my arm in slow, soothing passes. The other lay flat over my belly like a weight I didn’t know I needed. His thumb brushed my ribs in a rhythm that made my eyes sting again.
“I wanted to give you control,” I said quietly. “Because I didn’t have any left.”
“You gave me everything,” he replied. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”
We lay in silence, the kind that didn’t feel empty but necessary. It filled the space between us like breath after drowning—quiet, steady, and impossibly alive. Carrick’s lips brushed the back of my neck, warm and certain.
“I’m not doing this just because you asked,” he said, voice low. “I want to take care of you. Not just now. Always.”
A tightness bloomed in my throat, and I turned slightly toward him. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I know,” he said, already shifting to face me fully. “But I mean it.”
