Survivor (First to Fight #2)(58)
The crack in his voice causes one to form in the wall I’d built to be strong for him and Rafe and Donnie after Damian attacked me again. I try to patch it up, try to calm my breathing and still the flow of tears, but they spill over and the wall comes crumbling down.
As I sob into his chest, he lifts me like a child and carries me to our room, laying me down on the bed and cocooning me with his body. The headboard rattles against the wall with the effort of grief I expend into his shirt. By the time the tears come to an end, my whole body feels numb.
He strokes feeling back into my back and arms with a heavy, soothing palm, resurrecting pleasure and passion like an artist creating a masterpiece. I press my forehead into his damp shirt and release a shuddering breath against his chest, the catch more from the growing yearning for him than any lingering emotion.
Going on instinct now, my hand that was balled against his chest moves lower to the hem of his T-shirt. I yank it up, needing to feel his skin, whole and well, with my fingers. A reassurance that goes deeper than reason. A light dusting of hair tickles my palm, sparking nerve endings to life. The heat I find trapped by the material of his shirt stokes the flame to a low burn.
His hand finds my own and he starts to push it down. “That’s not why I did this.”
I flip him on his back, catching him by surprise. The look on his face is worth the six weeks of intensive training I took in self defense. “I know you didn’t.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says.
My shirt lands somewhere behind me, followed by the lacey bra he likes so much. When all he can do is stare, I slide my hands up his abs, and his shirt joins mine. I lean down to kiss him, letting our bare chests touch, entice and incite. His hips arch up as he takes my lips in a kiss so ardent it borders on violence. I match him stroke for stroke, my hands above his head, my hips circling his lap.
Breaking the kiss, my mouth a breath away from his, I whisper, “You said use you, right?”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob before he says, “That’s right.”
I slide down his body until I’m kneeling by his hips. With surprisingly steady hands, I undo the tricky button on his jeans, my fingers brushing against the hair that disappears into his briefs as I draw the zipper away. With care, I pull the jeans over his hips and help him push them down his legs. The bulge under the thick layer of cotton makes my mouth water.
Peeling those off as well, his cock springs free, the head flushed red, the base thick and ready. I kneel beside him, using my tongue first on the underside vein and have the pleasure of watching his hand clutch the sheets in my line of vision. He throbs in my hands as I take him deep in my throat. He grips the back of my thigh with one big palm, so high up I can feel the heat of his palm through the material of my jeans.
When I begin to suck in earnest, his hand moves higher, teasing me through my pants and wringing gasps of pleasure from my mouth around his cock. Unable to feel me how he wants, his hands move to the space between my back and my jeans, sliding in until he finds the skin he craves.
He cups one cheek with a firm grip, wrenching a deep groan from my throat. With sheer strength alone, he manages to squeeze his hand between the tight fit of my jeans until he reaches my * from behind. When he can’t find enough space to move in the confined area he growls, lurching up to fumble with my buttons until they release and he can plunge a finger into me.
I gasp around his cock, working him frantically now, deep enough that it brings tears to my eyes, making me gasp with each release. His legs start to contract, his toes curling up into little knots, and his balls draw up tight between his legs where I’ve been fondling them with one hand. He tries to pull back, dislodge me, but I don’t budge, sucking him into my throat until I can’t anymore.
When I think he’s about to come, he explodes from the bed, but not with release. Instead, he forces me onto my back, his face a ferocious contortion of a man on the edge, nearly wild with need.
His legs bump mine open and he rips my pants and panties down and off. Then his hips lock onto mine and he drags the broad head of his cock over my sensitive clit, causing my back to arch away from the bed. He does it again, his face twisted with indecision now.
“Fuck me,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Please, don’t worry about being gentle this time, Jack. I just want you. Hard and fast and rough and everything in between. Just f*ck me.”
He thrusts home before I even finish my plea, the last part of it going high and hoarse as he plunges so deeply I lose the ability to breathe. His lips take mine and he gives it back, kissing me deeply, thoroughly, even as his cock sets a brutal rhythm that stokes the fire and offers no relief.
My arms and legs twine around him, my legs high up on his hips and my arms around his neck, anchoring him to me as I buck against him. The push and pull that’s fueled our relationship since the first time he kissed me is present in the torturous climb to release that he stalls, making his strokes long and deep, but not quite fast enough to bring me to completion.
I sob against his throat, but this time in frustration. His weight pins me to the bed now, leaving me no other option but to take each thrust as he gives them, which is almost as hot as the feeling of him hard and thick inside me.
“You have to go faster,” I say desperately. “Harder.”
He takes my hands and knots them with his above my head as he continues his leisurely strokes. “No,” he says. “You’ll take it as I give it. You want me to f*ck you, I’m gonna f*ck you my way. And that means I’m gonna enjoy every wet suck of your * until you come.” He tips his hips up to punctuate each thrust, hitting a spot inside that makes my eyes cross. “That’s it,” he whispers into my hair.