Chapter Fourteen
~ Carter ~
I woke to the feeling of hands—big, sure, and impossible to mistake for anyone else’s—sliding over my hip and belly. It was still dark, but in the Montana pre-dawn the difference between asleep and awake had always been just a suggestion, not a rule.
I kept my eyes closed, cataloguing the details: the sheets tangled around my calves, the solid wall of Macon’s chest pressed along my back, the way his thigh caged mine just enough to make turning over optional, not possible.
He always started slow, as if I was something he’d built himself, something to be inspected for flaws and admired for the effort. His palm traced over my distended stomach, fingertips splaying against my skin. I felt the scrape of callus and the low buzz of his morning stubble as he nuzzled into the slope where my shoulder met my neck.
I pretended to still be asleep, but he knew.
He always knew.
“Morning,” he whispered, voice wrapped in gravel and promise.
I grunted, because he liked it, and felt his smile in the shift of his jaw against my nape.
The world condensed to this: Macon’s hand skating slow over my stomach, which, at nearly six months, was less of a bump and more of a statement. He never hesitated, never touched me like I was made of glass, just set his hand there and let it rest, thumb rubbing idle circles until my breath evened out.
He adjusted his leg behind me, pinning me closer, and I felt the heat of him—his morning hard-on thick and pulsing against the cleft of my ass. I wanted to wriggle back, to grind into him and drag out the last ounce of sleep from his body, but he was already there, already reading every micro-movement.
He let his lips wander, open-mouthed kisses working along my neck and up behind my ear. I shivered, not from cold but from the way he always managed to find the spot that would turn my bones to powder. His breath was hot and steady, the rhythm of it matching the slow roll of his hips, as if the world outside the bedroom didn’t exist.
He brought his hand up to cup my chest, fingers splaying over my sternum and dragging down, flattening me against him. I felt every inch of muscle, every scar and healed-over memory, mapped against the length of my body. His other hand—the dangerous one, the one that could pick locks or snap bone or build a dovetail joint with the same precision—slid down my belly, following the line of my navel.
I exhaled, slow and shallow, as he palmed my cock, already half-hard and straining. The contact was electric, the friction of his fingers slow but insistent.
I arched my hips, wanting more, but he just gripped the base and squeezed, then let go, as if to remind me whose body this was.
When I tried to roll onto my back to kiss him, he pressed his hand to my shoulder, holding me in place. The restraint wasn’t rough, but there was no room for argument.
“Stay,” he growled, mouth close to my ear. “Let me take care of you like this.”
A shockwave went through me. I’d spent most of my life trying to run things, to control outcomes and manage the fallout before it could bury me. But here, now, with Macon’s arms caging me and his cock throbbing between my cheeks, I let myself believe—just for a second—that being out of control was the whole point.
He rocked his hips forward, letting me feel the heft of him, then pulled back just enough to slide his hand lower, past my cock, past the seam of skin behind my balls. He brushed thespot, feather-light, then pressed in. I jerked, and he bit down on the curve of my shoulder, not enough to mark, but enough to warn.
“I’ve got you,” he said, as if I was the one who needed convincing.
He fumbled in the nightstand for lube, the click of the cap loud in the hush of the room. The cold gel slicked my skin, then his fingers, and the next touch was pure glide—a circle around my hole, a gentle pressure, the unhurried way he let me feel every increment of entry. My breath stuttered, and I dug my heels into the mattress for leverage, but he just pressed his thigh tighter over mine, holding me steady.
He worked a single finger inside, slow and patient. I clenched, out of habit, then relaxed, letting the pulse of heat and want overtake the last of my anxiety. He curled the finger, testing, then pumped a few times before adding another. Two fingers now, scissoring, stretching me with a focus that bordered on reverence.
My cock drooled against his fist, which kept the rhythm—up, down, twisting just so at the crown, squeezing every third stroke like a metronome. I was close already, body reduced to a hair trigger, nerves strung tight with anticipation.
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty and desperate. I made a noise, high and needy, and he laughed, low and smug, the sound vibrating through my spine.
“Eager this morning,” he murmured, then bit my ear.
He slid his cock between my cheeks, grinding against my hole, but not pushing in, just letting the slicked head part me, teasing, threatening. His hand still worked my cock, faster now, the other arm banded under my neck, pinning me in place.
I gasped. I tried to reach back, to pull him inside, but he caught my wrist and pinned it to my chest, fingers lacing through mine.
The pressure built. I whined, wordless, and he pressed his lips to the back of my neck, teeth scraping the skin.
“Easy,” he whispered, but it wasn’t a command. It was a promise.
When he finally lined up and pressed in, it was slow, excruciating—every millimeter a negotiation between pleasure and pain. I forced myself to breathe through it, to relax, to let him in. The stretch was overwhelming, the sensation of being filled both familiar and brand new. His cock was so thick it always felt like the first time, and he paused halfway, letting me adjust, rubbing my chest and belly to soothe the tremors.
