Page 37 of Carver
Dom wraps both hands around his mug, holding it low, by his waist. “I don’t want to make assumptions or be pushy. This is new and it might take some adjusting.”
I nod, but I do believe that honesty is the best policy, so I give him my full confession. “I’ve never wanted to hold you and be held more than I do now. I want to adjust by relearning you. I want you to discover me all over again. Make me yours again, Dominic.”
I don’t know what to do with myself when he doesn’t respond. It’s going to take more than a few simple words to connect us to each other when we’ve been standing on opposite ends of a chasm with only a broken bridge between us for so long.
I take his mug from him and set it on the counter. He angles away, jaw clenched, a vein in his temple throbbing. I think his instinct is to run, or just walk to the other room. Not away from me, but to give himself a second with his thoughts.
I probably should let him, but I catch him around the waist instead, wrapping my arms around him and flattening myself against his back. “Wait?” I don’t beg. Just ask. He stills, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against my cheek. I inhale everything, filling my lungs with the scent of him. He’s always been fresh air, tall grass, open skies, and earth.
“I know that you still feel this disconnect. I didn’t give you time for my sake. I gave it for yours. You needed to learn how to love yourself again.”
He lets out a shuddering breath. “If I ever did.”
Those sharp wolf canines bite down on the edges of my heart again, all the rage and pain on Dominic’s behalf detonating in me again, but I push through it. “If you ever did. I need you to know that I’m always going to love you, even if our life doesn’t resemble a fairytale. I’m not just waiting for that moment when everything changes, the freaking planets align, and all of a sudden everything is wonderful forever. Even if the years are rough, and we don’t figure it out right until the end, or ever, I’m going to love you through it. I’m going to change how I love you as you change. People don’t stay the same over a lifetime, so love can’t either. I’m in this with you, Dom. Now and forever.”
Dom inhales roughly again, another shuddering breath that rattles in his lungs and out. My eyes are on fire, and I realize that his shirt is wet beneath my cheek because I’m crying. I kiss his shoulder blades, the tears coming harder when his hand comes down on mine, clenching over my fingers.
He guides my palm down, beneath the gray cotton t-shirt that I bought him a few months ago and dropped off with the groceries.
He works it up a few inches, but I continue, working the left side up. He shoves his arm through, then guides it over his right arm. He’s used to his limited range of motion, so he helps me. I’m so careful pulling it over his face.
I’ve never undressed him from behind.
I’ve never stood behind him like this, with him stripped bare in every way.
It takes a lot of trust to give someone your back.
I scrape a kiss over his shoulder blade and then the other. The way he has to position his arm causes the bone to dip down with that side of his body. I kiss him there too before I trail kisses down his spine. His hair has grown out since he left Avandale.
I kiss the base of his neck, which feels the most vulnerable. He shivers and his skin breaks out in goosebumps. The tiny hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. My body hums with electricity that generates the most startling warmth.
He’s so much taller than I am, broader, and leanly muscled, but I can angle myself to the side, kissing his shoulder and upper arm, and reach around him.
His harsh gasp as my hand traces his abs echoes through the tiny kitchen. I know that he hasn’t been eating properly. I made sure he had groceries, but I know that he was lost to that too. He wasn’t hungry when he was obsessively carving, or when he was in pain of any sort. He’s hard muscle over bone, leaner, but the kind of lean that some athletes get. I can trace every single one of his abs. I do, memorizing their new definition. My fingertips skim his jeans. He chokes, but instead of pulling away or capturing my hand to relocate it, he undoes the button one-handed.
That simple gesture is like a silent plea. He wants me close. Heneedsme to touch him.
There’s one large window in the kitchen, over the double sink, but the blinds are closed tightly. We’re right in front of it, so I still double check before I lean into Dom’s shoulder and pull down his zipper. I slip my hand inside his jeans, flattening the heel of it against his stiff, throbbing cock. He hisses violently, wrapping his hand around mine, helping me guide him out of his boxers. He’s shockingly warm and so hard that I’m the one who watches my breath. When I wrap my hand around the base of him, his hips jerk forward on instinct.
I trace his whole length, circling just my fingers over the sensitive tip. Beads of precum smear over my fingers, so when I drag them back, there’s far less friction this time. His whole body jerks into the rhythm as I pump a tight fist down his length and back up. His hips jerk forward and then slam back into me. I’ve never done this from this angle before, which makes it even more thrilling.
I’d wore leggings and a loose sweater under my jacket so that I’d be comfortable when I drove this morning. My skin is a thousand degrees under the loose knit and my leggings are soaked, clinging damply to me like a second skin. I’ve known desire in the past, but the crushing weight of distance and our cataclysmic crash back together makes the fire under my skin nearly unbearable. I’ve never been so empty, never ached like this, never needed him inside of as badly as I do now.
I bite down on his shoulder lightly as I stroke him faster. He responds eagerly, breathing messily, his back billowing in and out, shoulders rising and falling against my mouth. I rear up, kissing his neck, painting my hot breath all over his ear because I know how sensitive they are and how much he likesto be licked and kissed at the juncture of his neck and along his earlobe.
I work my hand harder, squeezing a little bit tighter, caressing the tip of him. My hand is so wet that what I’m doing, my hand against his skin, is as loud as our coarse panting. We explored each other’s bodies for a long time before we ever fully had sex in a conventional meaning. I count every orgasm he gave me as sex. Every time I took him in my hand and made him come, every time I put him in my mouth, or he had his mouth on me—all of that was sex for me, and all of it was beautiful and earthshattering.
I’ve made Dom come with my hand many times, but this somehow feels like the first time. It’s more than just the angle.
It’s him.
Every memory we’ve ever made together, I’ve been looking at him. I remember him. Not what was happening, not so much the experience, but his smiles, his laughter, his joy, his radiance at every new discovery.
His hips slam into my hand, riding out every stroke. He’s always been quiet as a lover and when he’s being loved, so the deep growl he makes—half moan and half groan—hits hard. He might as well have given me a thousand words, all begging for pleasure, telling me how good it feels, letting me know just how desperately he wants me.
I kiss his shoulder again, running my tongue over his skin, lapping up the taste of him before I bite him. It’s a little bit harder this time. I’m at the right angle that I could spread my legs and ride the side of his thigh. I imagine myself grinding shamelessly against him as he pumps into my hand. I don’t, because I know that the slightest stimulation would make mecome, and that’s not the way I want to come for the first time after so long without him. I want it to be his hands, his mouth, his cock that I’m breaking apart all over.
I tighten my hand, squeezing him almost unmercifully. He forcefully rams his cock into my fist at the same time.
