Page 62 of Carrick
“Color?”
“Green,” I gasped.
“Good girl.”
He drove into me in one smooth thrust, and I screamed.
There was no buildup. No slow stretch.
Just him—allof him—burying deep with brutal precision.
I arched back, trying to take more, and he growled.
His hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back as he slammed into me again. The rhythm was unforgiving—wet, rough,perfect.
“You’re mine like this,” he said into my ear. “Bent over. Soaked. Taking every inch.”
“Yes—God, yes?—”
I was unraveling. But he wasn’t done.
He reached for a washcloth draped over the handle, and before I could process it, he pressed it to my mouth and shifted me slightly under the spray until water cascaded down over my face, over the cloth, stealing my breath.
I gasped—and got nothing but damp heat and cotton.
Panic flared. Then faded. His hand was still tight in my hair. His body still pressed to mine. I trusted him. And he was giving me exactly what I’d asked for.
The sensation was overwhelming—heat, pressure, denial. My body throbbed around him, an orgasm dragging its claws up my spine even as the breath left my lungs.
Just when I thought I’d float away, he pulled the cloth down. Air rushed in. And so did everything else.
I came hard, sobbing against the wall, muscles locking, every nerve alight.
He didn’t stop. He slammed into me again, and again, until I was nothing but noise and sensation. Until he was the only thing holding me up.
“Carrick—”
“Cum again,” he snarled.
“I can’t?—”
“You can. For me.”
And fuck, I did. I shattered a second time—longer, deeper, louder—crying out his name like a prayer, like a curse, like the only truth I knew. I reached back over my shoulder and found purchase on his neck, gripping tightly enough that he growled as I felt my fingernails digging into his skin.
His grip faltered. His rhythm broke. He thrust once, twice—and then stilled, hips jerking as he spilled inside me with a broken sound that hit me square in the chest.
We collapsed together, sliding to the floor, the water still pounding above us like applause. Steam filled the space, but I couldn’t tell what was fog and what was us.
Carrick’s arms wrapped around me instantly—steady, firm, protective in a way that didn’t trap me. His chest rose and fell against my back, mouth pressed to the curve of my shoulder as he whispered words I couldn’t make out over the spray.
I was still floating. Still shaking. Not from pain. Not even from release. But from the fact that I’d handed over everything—my body, my breath, my control—and he hadn’t just taken it. He’d held it. Worshipped it. Guarded it like it mattered.
And now? He was holding me the same way.
He shifted slightly, water running down his spine as he turned me in his arms and gathered me into his lap, my thighs draped across his, my cheek resting against the wet heat of hischest. One hand traced grounding circles along my spine. The other cradled the back of my neck like I might break if he let go.
The silence was full of things we hadn’t said yet.
