Page 24 of Carver (Satan’s Angels MC #8)

There’s one large window in the kitchen, over the double sink, but the blinds are closed tightly.

We’re right in front of it, so I still double check before I lean into Dom’s shoulder and pull down his zipper.

I slip my hand inside his jeans, flattening the heel of it against his stiff, throbbing cock.

He hisses violently, wrapping his hand around mine, helping me guide him out of his boxers.

He’s shockingly warm and so hard that I’m the one who watches my breath.

When I wrap my hand around the base of him, his hips jerk forward on instinct.

I trace his whole length, circling just my fingers over the sensitive tip.

Beads of precum smear over my fingers, so when I drag them back, there’s far less friction this time.

His whole body jerks into the rhythm as I pump a tight fist down his length and back up.

His hips jerk forward and then slam back into me.

I’ve never done this from this angle before, which makes it even more thrilling.

I’d wore leggings and a loose sweater under my jacket so that I’d be comfortable when I drove this morning.

My skin is a thousand degrees under the loose knit and my leggings are soaked, clinging damply to me like a second skin.

I’ve known desire in the past, but the crushing weight of distance and our cataclysmic crash back together makes the fire under my skin nearly unbearable.

I’ve never been so empty, never ached like this, never needed him inside of as badly as I do now.

I bite down on his shoulder lightly as I stroke him faster.

He responds eagerly, breathing messily, his back billowing in and out, shoulders rising and falling against my mouth.

I rear up, kissing his neck, painting my hot breath all over his ear because I know how sensitive they are and how much he likes to be licked and kissed at the juncture of his neck and along his earlobe.

I work my hand harder, squeezing a little bit tighter, caressing the tip of him.

My hand is so wet that what I’m doing, my hand against his skin, is as loud as our coarse panting.

We explored each other’s bodies for a long time before we ever fully had sex in a conventional meaning.

I count every orgasm he gave me as sex. Every time I took him in my hand and made him come, every time I put him in my mouth, or he had his mouth on me—all of that was sex for me, and all of it was beautiful and earthshattering.

I’ve made Dom come with my hand many times, but this somehow feels like the first time. It’s more than just the angle.

It’s him.

Every memory we’ve ever made together, I’ve been looking at him. I remember him. Not what was happening, not so much the experience, but his smiles, his laughter, his joy, his radiance at every new discovery.

His hips slam into my hand, riding out every stroke.

He’s always been quiet as a lover and when he’s being loved, so the deep growl he makes—half moan and half groan—hits hard.

He might as well have given me a thousand words, all begging for pleasure, telling me how good it feels, letting me know just how desperately he wants me.

I kiss his shoulder again, running my tongue over his skin, lapping up the taste of him before I bite him.

It’s a little bit harder this time. I’m at the right angle that I could spread my legs and ride the side of his thigh.

I imagine myself grinding shamelessly against him as he pumps into my hand.

I don’t, because I know that the slightest stimulation would make me come, and that’s not the way I want to come for the first time after so long without him.

I want it to be his hands, his mouth, his cock that I’m breaking apart all over.

I tighten my hand, squeezing him almost unmercifully. He forcefully rams his cock into my fist at the same time.

“I’m going to come,” he grunts, arching his head back and surging his hips forward.

His breathing is rocky until it punches out of his lungs.

I can feel the tremors race through him right before his cock kicks in my hand.

He bows forward, taking me with him as he comes.

It’s so intense that it feels like he’s going to rattle apart.

He groans something that sounds like my name as his come covers my hand in hot jets.

I’m too far gone. Too ridiculously turned on. All I can think is that I need to taste him. I need some part of him inside of me.

I bring my hand to my mouth and lick my palm.

The salty musk of him bursts over my tongue.

I would have gone a scarlet red in the past if I ever had to admit how much I love having him come in my mouth.

It’s not just the release. I genuinely love what comes after.

I know I’m probably in a very slim minority here, but nothing turns me on like the raw taste of my man.

I can’t help a wild whimper of pleasure as I lap up his seed. I pop my finger in my mouth, licking the shining trail clean.

“Jesus, fuck,” Dom curses under his breath. “Fuck, Bronte.”

Before I can even process what I’ve unwittingly unleashed with my own need, Dom picks me up basically one-handed.

The kitchen is so small that it’s only a few paces to the antique table so like the one my parents have, except this one is blue with floral chairs.

It’s rectangular and fits perfectly into this corner of the kitchen.

It bangs against the wall in protest when I’m set down on it.

Not slammed. Dom’s gentle with me, but I can’t say the same for my leggings.

He tears them away and throws them somewhere behind me.

My thong is just simple cotton with two little straps.

He pulls until they snap, then he shoves the chair out of his way, knocks my thighs open, and fuses his mouth over my aching pussy.

I fall back against the table, spread out like his new favorite meal. I try to get my hand between my legs to hold myself open for him, to shove his face away before I come, to just do something , but he catches it and then he’s licking my fingers, sucking each one clean, tasting himself on me.

He rears up, and even though I’m so wet that I’m probably leaking all over the table, he spits on me.

“Watch me, Bron,” he commands, more words than he usually ever speaks. He holds me open, and I do watch while he drags his tongue from my entrance, all the way up to my clit, lapping up his own saliva.

His face is fierce and so damn beautiful. He’s always been beautiful in his own right. The world’s gauge of what makes a person attractive or even valued is so skewed.

He lifts up one of my legs, spreading me even wider for him.

I nearly weep when he licks along my inner thigh.

He nips the sensitive skin, laving his tongue over the sting.

I want to bury my hands in his hair, but I’m still half terrified of hurting him in any way.

If my hand glances off or I pull too hard…

I lift my sweater and tank top up instead, shoving the cups of my bra down to pinch my nipples.

Dom inhales sharply, so I know that he sees.

I circle the hard buds while he licks me from my knee back down to the crease of my leg, teasing me unmercifully.

He breathes in loudly, drinking in the scent of me.

There’s no part of me he hasn’t seen, touched, known, and loved, but it’s been a while.

My face heats, but my blood also boils. He takes his time, running his finger down my seam before he parts me.

I watch him studying me, glistening and swollen for him.

He just looks, reverently, before he tastes.

He finds my entrance and dips his tongue inside of me, almost tentatively and shy.

“Oh my god!” I grasp the edge of the table at the deep rumble of pleasure that vibrates through him.

He slips his tongue inside of me, giving me just a fraction of what I truly need.

I can’t do anything except close my eyes and try to hold on against the sweet onslaught.

He eats me without caring how loud it is, clearly enjoying himself.

He’s not shy at all, not when he teases me as he tortures me with slowly making his way back to my clit, not when he sucks it into his mouth and rolls his tongue over it, not when he notches two fingers at my entrance and pushes them inside like he has all the time in the world.

My shoulders jack right off the table as I curl up and around the wild source of pleasure ripping through me.

I’m very conscious of the fact that everything about us is different now, including our situation.

We’re not alone anymore. We have a family.

Our daughter is sleeping soundly right upstairs in her brand-new crib.

It’s not like I can just moan the house down.

I slap my hand over my mouth while I grasp the table with the other, keeping my whimpers trapped inside.

It’s so good. So good the way Dom uses his fingers to fuck me leisurely while he licks my clit. I’m half wild with it, shaking and sweating, writhing away and forcing myself back, closer.