Page 26 of Brushed and Buried
He curses under his breath, a low, angry sound that vibrates through his chest. The wheel jerks sharply in his grip, tires crunching against the gravel shoulder, dust billowing in thesudden motion. My heart stutters, adrenaline and something darker tangling together in my chest, a mix of panic, desire, and the thrill of standing at the edge of whatever he’s about to unleash.
The engine dies with a quiet sigh, the silence heavy enough to feel like it’s breathing. Vince is out of the car before I can say anything, slamming the door behind him, hands gripping his hair as he paces in the gravel, head tilted back like he’s searching the sky for answers that won’t come. I sit there for a second, pulse still hammering, before pushing open my door. The air outside feels colder and sharper, biting against the heat still coiling in my chest.
“Vince?”
He stops, his shoulders tense. When he turns, his eyes burn like a fuse nearing its end. “What fucking control?” His voice cracks open the quiet, raw and shaking, fury and something deeper bleeding through.
The world feels smaller out here, like it’s holding its breath. Every rational thought evaporates.
I take a step toward him. He looks like he might bolt, so I do the only thing that feels right. I open the backseat door.
Before he can react, I push him gently but firmly toward the inside of the car. He stumbles back, startled, landing hard on the seat, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. The shock in his face flickers into something else, an expression I feel in every part of me. I follow him in and close the door behindme, and the space between us collapses as I drop to my knees in front of him. I place my palms on his open thighs, my heartbeat pounding in my throat.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I look up at him, the world spinning slow, my breath shaky. The tension hangs like static, heavy and alive, as if one wrong breath could set it all on fire.
I watch him, memorizing every line and tremor. There’s a flash of restraint in his expression and the barest hint of need before he fights it back. It makes me ache. The small, contained space feels like a furnace, heat radiating from him, from me, from the tension so thick it tastes metallic in my mouth.
My hand reaches out, the fingers hooking into his belt. I tug it open with a quick pull. The buckle clinks loose, then I pop the button on his pants. I grab the zipper next and yank it down slowly, the teeth part with a rough rasp. His pants loosen right away around the waist, the bulge underneath strains hard against his boxers, thick and ready.
He catches my movements with those wide, dark eyes, his chest heaving. There is the faintest quiver in his posture, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head that betrays him.
“This is insane,” I mutter, tugging his cock free. Heat surges through my palm as I grip his straight, thick shaft, the big head swelling prominently at the tip. The girthy base throbs with insistent need, heavy and demanding.
My mouth waters. I am giddy with excitement. I finally have Vince’s cock right in front of me, hot in my hand, close to my face. All these years, I’ve imagined him, traced every curve and line in my sketches, but nothing compares to holding the real thing.
“Shut up,” he growls, ragged and rough around the edges. I look up at him, and I’ve never felt hotter on my knees.
I laugh, letting it ride against the tension between us, then take him. I drag my tongue along the tip, tasting him, letting my warm breath fan over it, then tease him again with slow licks. His hips jerk instinctively. One hand shoots to the back of my head, pressing me down. He takes control, guiding me to swallow him deeper, testing how much I’ll take. He trembles, curses spilling in broken bursts, cracks in the armor he wears so carefully. I work him slow, teasing, then faster, tongue flicking, cheeks hollowing as I draw every ounce of response from him.
“Fuck, Adrian…” His voice cracks, ragged and low, and a thrill shoots straight through me. That is the win, watching the control he worships crumble just for me.
I push deeper, throat aching, spit slicking my chin. He is unraveling, and I am the one orchestrating it. The thought alone has me throbbing in my jeans, desperate and greedy.
I keep at him, bobbing my head, pulling out every trick I know, eyes locked on every twitch and every subtle shiver my touch draws out. I swirl my tongue down the length of him,lingering at the base, teasing with soft nibbles, then glide back up to the tip, savoring the way his breath hitches.
Then, ravenously and aggressively, I take him all in, feeling the tight, hot resistance. The reaction—a sharp intake of breath, a shudder running through him—spurs me to repeat it, slower this time and more thorough, like I am mapping him with every movement.
I pull back with a wet pop, tasting him, and circle back to the base, letting my tongue follow every slick trail, coaxing another groan and another flush of heat. Each flick, nibble, and slide of my lips draws him higher, teasing him toward the edge where he is both losing control and begging me not to stop.
He takes control, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head just the way he wants, and fucks my mouth with a reckless, merciless rhythm. My throat burns, each thrust sending shockwaves up my spine and making my knees quiver. His hips press hard against me, unrelenting, and I taste him, warm, taut, and demanding, setting my blood on fire.
His words slice through the haze, low and possessive, rough around the edges, each one striking like a whip across my skin. “You’re mine,” he hisses, “All of you, every inch, and you love it, don’t you?” The sound of his voice, hoarse with need, pulling me deeper into him, hotter than anything I’ve ever known.
“You’ve been mine in my head for ten fucking years,” he growls, low and ragged, every word trembling with raw andunrestrained need. “On your knees like this, taking me. You love it knowing I own you.”
He leans in, pressing his heat into me, body taut and trembling, every movement thrumming with the desire he has buried for years. I feel it in the way his chest heaves, in the sharp grip of his hands, in the feral tilt of his hips. His voice is low, rough and thick with want, impossible to ignore and resist.
“This mouth…” he growls with uncontrolled hunger, dragging the words out. “It was made to take everything I’ve been holding back all this time.”
I catch my breath, caught off guard by the raw, feral edge in his tone, the dominance in the way he takes what he wants. That dark, commanding side of him ignites something deeper in me, hotter than anything I’ve imagined. I take him in my hand, jerking him while my tongue circles and swirls, tracing every ridge, licking and teasing, driving him completely wild.
“Oh fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking with the edge of need. His hands grip my hair, nails digging in and holding me down hard. His hips slam forward, punishing and relentless, every thrust desperate.
The sound of his sharp and uncontrolled curses fills the car, each one marking the restraint he has shattered and the pent-up hunger finally unleashed.
He plunges once, twice, and shudders against me, his groans spilling from deep in his chest. His hand tangles in my hair like he is trying to pin me to him. Heat floods my throat, sharp anddemanding. I swallow hard and gasp, pull back with my lips slick, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
For a heartbeat, there is heavy silence, filled with everything we are not saying. Our breathing, the proximity, the electricity running between us, are more than any words could capture. He is unguarded, trembling with the effort of restraint, and I am here, steady, daring him to let himself feel everything he has been holding in.
