Page 192 of Carrick
Her next words cracked something open in me. “But I need to be pushed into submission,” she said, and there was no fire in it, no defiance—just tremor. “I need to be forced to forget. I need pain… to replace the pain in my heart.”
There was no pretense. No seduction. No performance. Only truth, laid bare in the quiet, aching and unapologetic. And I took it. All of it. Reverently. Like scripture.
I stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. My fingers trailed over her jaw, the soft swell beneath her eye where she’d cried herself hollow. I traced her bottom lip with my thumb and tilted her face up to meet mine. “You don’t need to be forced,” I said, my voice a low promise. “You need to be held while you fall.” Her eyes fluttered shut.
I took her hand, led her to the bed, and laid her down like a figurine blown in spun glass. Like she might shatter under the wrong touch. But when my hands met her skin, she sighed—not from pain. From relief.
Clothes slipped away like petals—slow, reverent, sacred. I kissed her shoulder first. Then her collarbone. Then the soft center of her chest. Each press of my lips was a tether. A vow. You are not alone. I kissed down her ribs, her stomach, her hips. I took my fucking time, because she deserved to be unwrapped like a holy offering made from flesh and warmth.
She arched slightly, hands twisting in the sheets as I opened her thighs. I said nothing at first. I just looked at her. Wet and glistening and trembling beneath me. God, she was wrecked already, and I hadn’t even touched my mouth to her yet.
I leaned in and kissed the inside of her knee, then the other. My hands moved up to spread her open wider, and when my tongue finally met her clit, she gasped like she’d been resuscitated.
“Fuck—” she whispered, already breathless.
I licked slow. Deep. Controlled. Not to tease her. To worship her. To show her that this, right here—her body given to me, her soul exposed, her grief burning just beneath her skin—was the most sacred thing I had ever touched.
She moaned louder when I flattened my tongue and dragged it up the length of her slit, tasting her, drinking her in like absolution. She was slick, already dripping, and I couldn’t stop the low groan that rose in my chest when I sucked her clit into my mouth and held it there. She bucked.
I wrapped my arm under her thigh to anchor her, my other hand sliding between us to thrust a finger deep inside her.
She cried out. Then again, when I added a second. “Oh—oh, God—Carrick!”
“That’s it, baby,” I rasped, voice muffled against her cunt. “Cum for me. Let go. Give me everything.”
Her back arched. Her body tightened.
And then she shattered.
She came with a sob, thighs trembling around my face, her hands scrabbling for the sheets like she could anchor herself to the earth through cotton alone. I didn’t stop—licked her through it, kept my fingers moving until she whimpered and twisted away.
I pulled back slowly, dragging my lips across her thigh, her hip, her belly. She was gasping. Eyes closed. Tears on her cheeks.
I crawled up her body and kissed one, slow and soft. Then the other.
“That’s one,” I whispered, brushing her hair back. “You’re gonna give me more.”
She nodded. Her body was pliant now—warmed, open. Her breathing was still uneven, but the sharpness had faded. She was sliding into herself. Into me. I kissed her once more—deep and slow—then rose from the bed.
Time to give her what she’d asked for. Pain to soothe the ache in her chest. But I would give her more than that. I would give her control in the chaos. Silence in the storm. My hands, my voice, my strength. And when she shattered again—I’d be there to catch the pieces.
Her skin was flushed from my mouth, pulse erratic beneath my fingertips as I helped her down. She swayed once—knees shaky, eyes unfocused beneath heavy lashes. Not just from orgasm. From the weight of everything she was carrying. I didn’t let go.
Hand on the small of her back, I guided her across the room. Every step deliberate. She followed barefoot and bare, trusting me to carry her into the dark and back again. At the bench, I traced a line down her spine. She arched—just slightly—breath catching. Teetering on the edge. Ready to fall if I told her to.
“Up,” I said, low and firm.
She bent forward, laying her chest against the padded leather, arms resting in front of her. Not resisting. Not submitting blindly.
Offering.
I knelt first, strapping her ankles into the black leather cuffs—tight enough to restrain, not to bruise. Her legs parted with a quiet sigh, obedient and eager. I dragged a fingertip along the inside of her thigh—just because I could. Then I rose, fastening her wrists. Spreading her arms. Her back arched. Her ass lifted. Vulnerable. Waiting.
My breath caught. She wasn’t breathtaking because she was naked. She was breathtaking because she was brave. Because she had lost everything—and still, she chose this. Chose me.
I stepped behind her and let my hands explore. I palmed her ass, slow and firm. Squeezed. Spread her apart so I could see her—swollen, slick, glistening from the orgasm I’d wrung out of her minutes ago. She was still leaking. Still open.
I didn’t hide the growl that rumbled low in my chest. “Look at you,” I murmured. “Already ruined and begging for more.”
