“Sorry,” he mutters, already crowding closer, his mouth finding mine in a rough, hungry kiss. His hands slip under my shirt, fumbling up to my breasts, and I rise into that touch, instantly desperate. He pulls back to trail his lips down my neck. I shiver, my nipples sensitive to the pinch of his fingers.
“Why do you taste like gasoline?” I mumble, half-asleep.
“Thomson made me drink,” he says against my skin, voice rough, distracted. He nibbles on my collarbone until I squirm. “Seems like a damn choir boy, drinks like he’s got something to prove.”
“Wow,” I laugh quietly, “is the great Carrson Ashford admitting someone’s better at something than him?”
He growls against my neck, “Not admitting nothing.”
“So eloquent.” I run my fingers through his hair and smile when he practically purrs.
He draws back, staring down at me in the moonlight. “You want a poet?”
I expect a joke, but his hand comes out to caress my cheek, his touch devastatingly gentle. “How about I tell you how beautiful you are?”
I forget to breathe.
His mouth brushes my throat, the whisper of lips to skin.
“How I couldn’t sleep,” he continues, “because I couldn’t get you out of my head.”
There’s something raw in it. Too honest to be just the alcohol.
“How I’m a fucking addict,” he murmurs. “And my preferred drug,” he presses his nose to my neck and inhales, “is the sound you make when you come.”
“I think,” a laugh escapes me, but it comes out breathless, a little shaky, “I like drunk Carrson.”
He leans down and kisses my breast, right through the fabric of my nightgown. I moan softly.
He comes back up to nuzzle my neck while his hands move under my shirt, circling each nipple until they harden into pebbles. “I could tell you I think your tits are a masterpiece, and after I make you come on my cock I want to fuck them.”
I laugh, louder this time. “You were doing so good,” I croon, patting his shoulder, “until that last part.”
He drops his head to my chest and chuckles, like even he knows he pushed it too far.
Then we’re a blur of motion. He tugs my pants and underwear down. I lift my hips, help kick them off. He undresses himself with one hand while his other is on my clit, stroking and rubbing. I gasp, pleasure spiking all the way to my toes as his fingers slip into me, down to the knuckle. I raise my hips to drive him deeper.
“So wet,” he says hotly, then nips the lobe of my ear with his teeth, tugging on it until I groan. “So fucking perfect.”
He replaces his fingers with his cock. It nudges my entrance, demanding, and I widen my legs, hooking them over his hips.
He doesn’t enter me, though. Not yet.
Instead, his hand is back on my throat, squeezing gently.
“Is this okay?” His eyes practically glow in the moonlight.
I nod, anticipation blending with nerves until I can’t tell one from the other. It turns me on, the danger of it, yes, but more than that. It’s the way he’s paying attention. Like he won’t miss a single reaction.
A half-smile. “My girl, likes it dark,” he murmurs.
My girl.
I melt into the mattress.
Right now, he could do anything to me.
As long as he keeps calling me that.
