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He squeezes my fingers and slowly pushes in.
I make a small, quiet gasp and then I allow my eyes to close. I’m spellbound. Tate’s hand above my head has slipped between the back of the black mattress and the headboard, gripping it for leverage as he fills me entirely. His other hand is wrapped around the back of my shoulder, holding me preciously against him so that I stay in place.
I feel one of his hands move and he lightly squeezes at the hollows of my cheeks, silently asking me to open my eyes, before sliding it back between my head and the pillow, tangling himself in my hair. I obey and flutter my eyes open. I’m enveloped in hard swollen muscles, his bicep brushing my curls, his chest almost touching my mouth. I tilt my head back so that I can look into his eyes and his face is rigid with tension as he waits for me.
“Baby, can I…” His sentence breaks off as a shiver runs through him, but he remains completely still as he desperately fights his own want. He inhales deeply and tries again, his voice more gruff than sandpaper. “Is it okay if I move?”
I’m mesmerised by his restraint. I nod and he groans, leans down, and sucks my neck in gratitude. He pulls out, long and lush, and then pushes back in.
“Like this?” he asks, his voice taut with need. He tries various alignments until my breathing hitches and then he rolls into the position with heavy determined thrusts. The storm is splashing harder outside and Tate’s eyes are glinting like he’s possessed. He shoves his body into mine again, and again, and again, and my nails try to find purchase in his inked and swollen biceps. He lowers his gaze down to my chest and he begins to thrust faster and harder as he watches me bounce up and down with his propulsion. “Tell me when you want me to pick up the pace,” he breathes out, strained.
My mouth falls open.What?This is him goingslow?
“Tate,” I whisper urgently. When his fierce eyes meet mine my question evaporates.
He dips down to slide his tongue against mine and then he asks hoarsely, “More?”
I have masochistic science-experiment curiosity so I bite my lip and nod, and within a second he increases the momentum to straight-up hammering. I’m held in place so that I don’t crack my skull on the headboard. I feel like I’m being exorcised.
He’s showing me what his hard-earned body was made for: pleasure-pain murder-salvation. His hands pull, press, rub, tease, and then he tilts his head down so that he can watch himself as he slips in and out of me.
The wet slapping grows louder as Tate thrusts us closer to the edge. He wraps his hand around the back of my leg and forces my thigh upwards so that he can see more. He grunts as he takes it in, and his shoulders undulate with strain. “I’m… I’m coated in you,” he groans roughly, and suddenly, just as I grasp that I can’t take any more, he splays the entire span of his warm rough palm across my stomach and he presses downhard.
“Tate,” I whimper. I’m pleading with him, desperate for him to continue doing this to me for the rest of his life. The sound he makes in response is so obscene that I literally convulse beneath him.
He sucks my throat, palms my breasts, restrains my legs. He praises me for being a good girl, for being an angel, for taking him so well. He pushes through my tremors unrelenting as I blackout-collapse into his quilt and, though I’m approaching comatose, he doesn’t stop. His body is anchored deep and he’s plunging in and out so hard that his clenched muscles start vibrating with the need to release. He stills for a moment and then his hips begin jerking violently, over and over again, pounding against the softness of my thighs until his whole spend is pumped out and unloaded, angry grunts ripping from his throat.
He collapses on top of me, his heavy body keeping me pinned to the mattress as his hands slide into my hair and he buries his face into my neck. He repeats something a few times that I’m not coherent enough to decipher. I wrap my arms around his waist and I quickly fall asleep.
Chapter 24
Present
It’s still dark outside when I wake up. There’s an unusual purple tint to the blackness and it takes me a moment to place it. The splashing of the rain has turned to soft, almost inaudible thudding, and the whole neighbourhood is blanketed in quiet.
It’s snowing.
I’m about to sit up to look outside when I feel a shift in the heavy weight wrapped around me. Both of Tate’s arms are firmly encasing my waist, his hands are splayed protectively across my stomach, and his head is resting above mine on the pillow. I can feel that I’m wearing a t-shirt and my underwear from earlier, so Tate must have slipped me into them a few hours ago. The length of his arousal, stiff and protracted, digs into my back, and I arch into it subconsciously. The hands on my stomach instantly grip tighter and Tate takes a deep shock inhalation that makes me know that he’s awake.
He moves carefully behind me, his hips lowering to mine so that he can press himself against my behind, and he makes a deep guttural noise in the back of his throat.
“Jesus,” he whispers, and he raises one hand to hold me by my clavicle so that he can push me back against his chest.
“Baby,” he murmurs quietly, his voice a low bass in my ear. I shiver and he presses into me harder. “Are you awake?”
I smush my face into the pillow because I am only about five percent awake, but I nod anyway.
He makes an understanding noise. “Are you… too tired?” he asks, his tone hushed, deep, calm.
I think about it for a minute. I think about it for so long that I almost fall asleep again, and I can feel Tate breathe a soft laugh behind me. When I shake my head he swallows hard.
He presses himself over me so that his chest is pushing into my back, my tummy compressed against the bedding, and one of his hands gently pulls up my hip to meet the thick tent in his underwear. He’s laden. A painful flame licks up my belly and I try to hold back a lustful purr. He slides my underwear down my legs and he eases the shirt that he was wearing last night up my back and over my head. His hands roam to my front, squeezing gently, and then he leans across my back to reach into the box on the nightstand. I hear the quiet tear of the packet as he pulls at it with his teeth, and he angles away from me slightly as he rolls it on.
“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his shoulders caging me in as he positions himself against me.
I tilt my head back to look at him and a vibration rolls down my spine, settling in my stomach. He’s looking at me like I own him. His eyes are glinting with possessiveness as he awaits my permission, and my body clenches at the juxtaposition. I smooth one of my hands over his large fist, loosening his fingers from their death-grip on the pillow, and he bends forward to kiss me softly on the lips.
“Be gentle, I’m sleepy,” I whisper, and he makes a pained noise as he drops his face to my shoulder. He nods against my skin, his soft hair tickling my neck, as he pulls me higher and rubs himself up and down my centre.
