Page 31 of Carver (Satan’s Angels MC #8)

Carver

I t’s hard to believe that there’s a world out there, existing, going fast, tilting and turning and moving, all while we’re in here. With Bronte spread out naked on the couch, nothing else exists in this moment.

I’m captivated by her body. She’s lean, muscular, lithe, toned, and curvy in turns. She’s truly a masterpiece.

Her sandy hair spills out behind her and overflows the couch, trailing down to the floor.

She laid herself out artfully, like silk draped strategically to be utterly breathtaking.

She angled herself so that her feet are pointing to me, her heavy-lidded eyes facing me.

She still has a deep tan from summer and her bronzed skin glows in the overhead light, the golden glow floating over her and lapping at her tan lines like ripples in a stream.

She was stiff when she slid off her leggings and peeled her panties down her legs, but now she draws her knees up, running her hands from her knees, down her thighs.

Like a gate falling open, she lowers one leg, still in a curled position, so that I can see what she’s doing.

I know she does it just for me because her eyes sweep to my face and a coy smile plays over her lips.

She might be nervous, but she’s doing her best to hide it.

I didn’t know that I wanted this until I suggested it, but now watching her touch herself is all I can think about.

I want to see her lose herself.

I want to see her find herself.

I want her straining and wild, head tossed back, face a mask of ecstasy.

My cock pounds in my jeans, punching against the zipper.

With Bronte’s gaze locked on my face, I spread my legs in the chair, dropping my foot down to the floor.

I adjust myself, and not subtly either. There’s no hiding the long ridge of my thick erection down my leg.

Her eyes sweep there and her lips part, letting out a breathy little gasp.

I’m going to watch her do this and I’m not going to touch myself. I’m going to sit here and let my cock throb. I’m going to let my balls feel like they’re going to explode. Even if it kills me, this is for Bronte.

I’m going to sit here and do nothing to distract her. Give her zero instruction. I want to see what she does for her own body.

She teases herself, dusting her fingers down her thigh in a smooth caress until she hits the crease of her leg.

She dances her fingertips over. She turns her face to the ceiling and closes her eyes, looking like a serene maiden in a field of flowers.

One hand is thrown back behind her head, but with the other, she whispers her fingers over her slit and then parts herself.

I’m not going to let anything distract me from her, but my first instinct is to palm my dick and squeeze. My balls feel like they’re three sizes larger than is safe for any man.

I keep my hand resting on my knee, the other on my abs, since it’s comfortable to rest it that way, but a caveman groan works its way out of my throat and past my lips.

Bronte opens her eyes, blinks at me, and shuts them again, She traces her glistening seam before she parts herself again. The overhead light makes it clear just how wet she is.

Her breasts have always been perfect. All of her is perfection.

They’re a little bit larger now and they rise and fall with a heavy inhale and a long exhale as she slicks her finger along her entrance and moves up to slowly circle her clit.

They rise and fall again, at that first graze of that sensitive spot.

Her nipples are so hard, pointing at the ceiling.

She strokes herself, circling her clit with her damp fingers, her shoulders jacking off the couch as pleasure grips her. She smears more moisture onto her fingers, dipping them into her entrance and pulling back, massaging her clit with one finer while she parts herself with the others.

My mouth waters.

I vividly recall the delicious taste of her on the table last night. I want to fling myself off this chair and fall to my knees in front of her. It would be so easy to slide my hands under her hips, bring them to my face, and drink from her like a dying man.

It takes all the control I have left not to palm my cock, no matter how badly I want to take it out and jack myself.

Bronte’s belly trembles as she touches herself faster, applying a little bit more pressure to her clit. She circles faster, her breath shallowing out with every stroke. She’s swollen and making a mess of the couch underneath her. She needs to be cleaned up with my tongue.

I keep my ass in this seat and just watch.

She keeps her trembling thighs spread wide open, moaning and whimpering in between those shallow breaths she drags in. The air escapes and gets drawn back in through her clenched teeth.

She’s not the only one who’s utterly soaked.

My cock is weeping in my boxers. It’s soaking through the fabric.

It’s so heavy, but nothing compared to my balls.

The base of my spine tingles as I watch Bronte get closer and closer.

I’m so focused on what she’s doing, on how it must feel, but I can also taste her.

I can imagine those moans fed straight to my tongue.

I know what it feels like when she comes all over my cock, her tight walls clenched around me as her body shudders against the length of mine.

My thoughts run wild. I can imagine just how she’d feel as I sink my cock into her. How she’d writhe beneath me or on top of me. How warm she’d be, clenching over and over on my dick as she came, how she’d soak my balls in her juices.

I think dirty, delicious thoughts that I’d never say out loud.

Not because she wouldn’t think they’re hot or because she wouldn’t want to hear them, but because it’s more my style to keep them locked in my head.

Her asking me to talk to her tonight was the first time she’s ever broken into my thoughts and held out her hands for them to be placed in her palms.

As her pants and shivers increase, I think about all the times we’ve done this. The first. The last. Every single one in the middle.

I’m so far gone and so is she.

I study her closed eyes, flushed cheeks, and swollen lips.

She’s panting while she touches herself and I imagine her on her knees, her hot breaths fanned out over my groin as she leans in.

I’d tell her that she couldn’t use her hands.

Command her in that bossy tone that she asked me to use.

She’d lean in and nuzzle me, inhaling my scent through the fabric of my boxers.

She’d tease my cock like that, run her nose down my length before she’d lick the wet fabric.

She moans and I can almost feel that sound pulsing through me.

Her mouth against the tight cotton, whimpering at the salty precum that soaked it long before her saliva.

She’d use her tongue to test the length of me, starting at the base, running all the way to the tip, still through the fabric.

She’d want to use her hands, beg me even, to let her take me out and have me in her mouth, but I’d tell her no.

Not yet. In her desperation, she’d find the tip of me anyway, drawing me into her mouth through the thin, soaked barrier of my underwear.

She’d beg me to let her use her hands on herself. She’d slip one between her legs and touch her aching, soaking pussy. Slip a few fingers through her soaked, swollen slit, and skim them over her entrance. She’d be even wetter, dripping down her thighs, slick all the way back to her ass crack.

She’d get bold and use her hand on me, cupping my balls through my boxers, squeezing, until she peels down the waistband and frees my dick to wrap her warm, wet, eager lips around the head.

She’d slip those fingers into her tight pussy and fuck herself with them while she sucks me, taking me all the way to the back of her throat…

Bronte comes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, swaying as her chest saws up and down, as the shaking grips her.

She moans low and fast before she bites down on the sound.

She’s always been quiet, like her pleasure is meant for us alone, and not the very air around us.

She’s rough with herself, her hand churning through her wetness as she brings herself through the height of pleasure.

Watching her pussy so open for me, growing swollen and weeping, her back arching off the couch, the muscles in her neck and throat straining, her pulse leaping, eyes closed, so sexy, so gorgeous, so captivating, throws me straight into my own climax.

My balls draw up even harder. The pleasure is a punch in the gut before it bottoms out lower.

My cock kicks in my jeans and tingles of pleasure stab through me so forcefully that I let out a hoarse shout.

I bend from the waist, leaning forward as the pleasure doubles me over like a punch to the gut.

Ropes of hot come shoot into my boxers, in my jeans. I come and come, so forcefully that black spots trip across my field of vision. Bronte is under my skin. She’s in every cell, every muscle, every scrap of tissue. She’s in my bones and in my blood. Flowing through my heart.

My cock keeps kicking even in the confined space. The pleasure grasps me tight, playing tricks with my head, with gravity, with a solid state of being.

I didn’t realize my eyes were closed until I have to pry them open.

Bronte’s wide eyes are on me. They’re so brown right now, magnified by her blown pupils, honey soft and whiskey bright. Her eyes drop from my face down to my lap. My legs are parted, I’m hunched down in the chair, half collapsed, a large wet spot on the front of my jeans.

I’m half torn between embarrassment, wanting to slam my hands over the spot and cover it up, and half still so blissed out that I don’t feel shame at all, but a rush of hot, base desire and even an even hotter burst of affection.

She unfurls from the couch, rising like a naked nymph who’s just been given life, glorious and sultry and seductive, but somehow also still so sweetly innocent.

She walks over, hips gently swaying, and kneels down in front of me. It’s not so different from the fantasy I just played out in my head, except that she takes my hand in both of hers.

“That was… that was really different,” she whispers reverently, her gaze locking on mine, so intense and earnest. “I loved it. Thank you.”

She stands and helps me up then leads me to the bathroom. She fills the tub and then strips away my clothes. I’m still half in shock and half mortified that I came in my jeans like a teenage boy.

Except I didn’t even do that when I was a teenager.

The tub is small, but that doesn’t deter Bronte.

She motions for me to get in and then slips into the tiny little space that’s left in front of me.

She bows her head, wrapping her arms around her legs, drawing her body into herself, but at the same time, making it possible for me to get my arms completely around her.

The warm water laps at our waists. She hardly put any in, but with both of us in here, there’s not much room and it rides dangerously close to the top lip of the tub.

“The shower would have been more appropriate, but I don’t want us both in there in case Ellie wakes up and cries and we can’t hear her over the water running.

I have this nightmare of her learning how to jailbreak her crib, getting out, and hurting herself.

I know it’s irrational. She can’t get out. But still.”

I brush her hair aside. The ends are damp, but so are the roots, from perspiration. I kiss the back of her neck. “I love how protective you are of her. You’re a great mother. You’re a wonderful partner. Not many people would get themselves off and then offer aftercare to someone else.”

“The aftercare is a combined effort,” she responds lightly, her voice like music, echoing in the small bathroom. “For both of us. You don’t need to take care of me. I mean, sometimes you can, but I’m here for you too. That’s what teamwork should be.”

I don’t even know how to describe the feeling that washes over me. It’s hot, like the bathwater. Soothing. It’s more than gratitude.

We’re just starting to rebuild our lives, but I think about that ring I have put away for Bronte. It’s hidden at the bottom of my backpack. It was one of the few things I grabbed that night before coming to Hart.

It’s not a question of if any longer.

If I can be the man she needs.

If I can be the person she deserves.

If I can get my shit together to even imagine a future.

I want Bronte to be mine. I want a life with her.

I want to be hers. I want to be Ellie’s father.

Bronte’s husband. I want to grow old with her.

No matter what’s going on with my face or my body, it can’t break my will.

It can’t stop me from working hard and doing everything I can to be the best person I can be.

I should never have let anything come between us the way I did.

I lost myself, but I’m finding my way back.

I’m going to get there, even if my injuries never heal.

No matter what scars I carry with me, Bronte’s made it clear that she loves me.

Ellie doesn’t see my face or my arm when she looks at me.

She just sees another person in her world who adores her and loves her with everything they have.

If that’s the only thing that matters to the people who matter to me, then it’s the only thing that should matter to me too.

The truth is, I didn’t die under that fucking stone.

I didn’t.

I’m here.

I want to live .

I rest my chin on Bronte’s shoulder. “I love you.” I’ve never heard my voice weighted down with so much emotion. I’ve never packed more meaning into those words.

Bronte hears. She knows. She’s always known. “I love you,” she responds, her tone just as thick. She moves back another few inches, until there’s no space left between us.

Until our bodies are one.