Chapter eleven
Hands on the wall
Carina
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to go.”
His question feels absurd when my body is already leaning into him, when my thighs are shaking, and every nerve in me is screaming for friction.
Reid’s hand flexes at my hip, his chest rising and falling, lips parted, and eyes locked on mine as if he’s giving me a final chance to pull this back.
But I want the opposite. I want to give up control. I want to remove everything running through my brain apart from how good he makes me feel.
“I want you to fuck me.”
The words come out throatier than I expect, as though they’ve been lodged behind my ribs for weeks, trying to get free. And once they’re out, I don’t want to take them back. I don’t want to pretend anymore.
His eyes flick down to my mouth, then lower.
“You’re sure.”
“Reid,” I whisper, pulling his attention back to mine by the collar of his shirt. “I’m so fucking sure.”
And that’s all it takes. He’s on me again, crushing his mouth to mine and hands everywhere—jaw, ribs, hips—like he can’t decide what part of me to grab first. His tongue drags against mine, and I moan into it as he presses me firmer against the wall, his knee nudging harder against my pussy.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he mutters against my mouth. “How you’d taste. How you’d sound. How fucking wet you’d be for me.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think. My hands grapple at his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me upright as his mouth drops to my throat, sucking a mark just below my ear. And when he grinds against me, I swear I see stars.
“Take me to bed,” I manage to croak. “Please.”
He pulls back, eyes blown wide.
“You sure you don’t want to keep dry-humping my knee against the wall?”
“If you don’t fuck me properly in the next five minutes,” I whisper, “I’m gonna climb your injured leg and do it myself.”
He lifts me clean off the floor, and my legs lock around his waist as he makes his way down the hall. I nod toward my bedroom, and when we enter, he heads to the bed and drops me onto it with a soft thud.
I huff a laugh and push up on my elbows, watching as he takes a full step back, just long enough to assess me. He looks like aman ready to devour, eyes locked on mine as he undoes each of his shirt buttons with a kind of restrained violence.
His shirt slowly starts opening, andfuck, he’s so much man, I forget how to breathe.
Broad shoulders. A sculpted chest with a dusting of dark hair. A black ink tattoo wraps up his ribcage on the left, sweeping over his side like a wave crashing up his torso. His skin is flushed and tight across muscle, and I can see the way his abs contract as he flicks open the last button.
I can’t stop staring and lick my lips without meaning to.
“You like what you see?”
“Obviously,” I breathe, watching as he kicks off his shoes, eyes on mine the entire time.
“You’re still wearing too much,” he says, voice low.
I nod, rising to stand in front of him, my hand reaching for the zip on the back of my dress.
“Wait.”
Something shifts in his face as I follow his order, and he nods toward the wall beside him.
