Heat flares in his eyes. He gets up and closes the distance between us, but instead of touching me, turning me away from him, he steps around to view my back.
“Jocasta. You’re all scraped up,” he says, in reprimand.
I shiver.I don’t care.
“The bark pattern is imprinted in your bruise, but it’s fading already.” His voice holds a mix of awe and frustration. He traces a finger lightly down my spine, and I gasp at the feather-touch.
His hands slip around my middle before sliding up just under my breasts. The heat of his hands radiates into my ribs, and I want to squirm to move his touch where I need it to be. “Can you be quiet?” he asks. “My neighbors are very touchy about the noise.”
Fuck yes. How does he know exactly what to say? I nod fervently, frantically.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. He places an open-mouthed kiss on my shoulder, his hands rising to cup my breasts.
I swallow the moan caught in my throat. I promised to be quiet, and I know him—and our power struggles—well enough to know he will back off if I don’t, even if it punishes both of us.
He catches my nipples between the knuckles of his first and second fingers, closing the gap to pinch tightly, even as his thumbs stroke the side of my breasts. “So soft. I want to taste. Pull you into my mouth and hear you try not to scream for more.”
I push my hips back into him, rubbing against him, rigid beneath the fly of his jeans.
The tiny groan that escapes him is the only sign I’m getting to him. “That’s not helpful, Jocasta.”
“Or very helpful,” I point out, trying to match his calm and failing desperately.
“I thought you agreed you could be quiet,” he scolds gently. He lifts my arms up, placing my hands on my head. “Does this hurt your back?”
I shake my head.
“Good. Leave them there.” He ducks his head down at my right side, his hand lifting my breast to his questing mouth.
The fabric of his shirt teases my bare skin, and my eyes snap shut as he trails hot kisses along the side of my breast.
“I love the way you taste, the way you smell. It haunts me. Sometimes at night, I wake up and think your scent is on my pillow.”
“Laundry detergent?” I manage.
“Troublesome,” Carter counters. He licks across my nipple, and I moan. Then he pulls it into his mouth and sucks, his tongue working against my flesh. His fingers press my breast against his lips so he can take more in, and that sensation becomes the center of my universe.
He lifts his head, releasing my nipple with a pop. “Too much?” he asks.
“N… no.” My hands are twisting tight in my own hair, just for something to hang on to.
His hand dips easily beneath the waist of my leggings, sliding down to stroke between my legs. He grunts in satisfaction. “Wet already.” His fingers retreat slightly to pet my clit through the front panel of my panties.
I squirm in his grasp, trying to push forward for more friction.
But he holds me still, until his fingers work along the side and then beneath the fabric.
He trails his fingertips from my clit to my opening, teasing with a light touch.
“You feel that? So soft, so wet.” He sinks two fingers inside, and I gasp at the stretch. “I love feeling you open up. Getting ready for me.”
He pushes into me, in and out, for a few strokes. Then he slides his whole hand beneath my panties and centers his palm over me, so it rubs against my clit with every thrust of his fingers.
I push my hips back into his hand, and the rhythm takes over, until the first flutters move in me. I’m close.
I let go of my hair and reach back to grasp his shoulders, his shirt. “More.”
But he slows, pulling out, departing with a few slippery caresses.
