Page 36 of Carver (Satan’s Angels MC #8)

“Maybe a little bit weird, but it’s also so us and I love us.

” She removes the bottle from the bag and carefully peels the wrap away.

“It’s been the great blessing of my life to have this time with you.

I didn’t want to do anything until you were ready.

Waking up with you beside me has been one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. I’ll never take that for granted.”

We haven’t had sex yet at least in one sense.

We’ve done everything else, making each other come, exploring our bodies and testing boundaries, discovering things we never knew.

It’s been fun and it’s been painful—but not the bad kind of pain.

Mostly. I can deal with walking around with swollen balls and an almost permanent hard-on.

My dick might have the imprint of various zippers embedded in it, but waiting until we were both ready is worth it.

“I am. Ready.” I watch her peel the rest of the wrap away. She studies the bottle for a second, then twists the wire around the cork to remove it. “Not to resume something. Not to start something. We can’t just pick up where we left off, and we’ll never be starting over.”

She uncorks the bottle. The pop of it echoes loudly in the kitchen, as if to underscore my words.

Everything about this feels like the first time.

All our firsts. The first time I was invited over to her house.

First time she ever asked me to touch her.

The first kiss, the first time she touched me back, the first time we did all of it.

She took my breath away. Every single time.

Not just my breath, but my heart, my hurt, my cells.

She changed me. I’m still worried about doing this right.

Making it romantic, and everything she wants it to be.

She deserves all of that, and I’ve always fallen so short on giving it to her.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” I ask when she pauses with the bottle in hand. She doesn’t drink or sip and she doesn’t offer it to me either. “To the bed?”

“If we end up there, fair enough. If not, I’m not going to complain.”

“What would you like me to do?” I know what I’d like, but this is about Bronte. It’s her fantasy. This is her night. Just like the night I asked her to touch herself for me, I wanted it to be all about her body, her feelings, her wants, her desires, her emotions, and her pleasure.

“Just kiss me, and then…”

“And then?”

“We’ll see where it goes.”

“The only place I’d like it to go is that you know how beautiful you are. I want that you for you every single day.”

She steps into me and sets her hand over my beating heart. It’s slamming in my chest, so eager to break free and be hers. Her partner, her lover, her friend. The one she can turn to when she can’t go anywhere else.

“I love you.” My eyes sting with unshed tears and Bronte responds to the words with a sheen of moisture gathering in her own eyes. She blinks and the tears spill down her cheeks.

“I love you, Dominic. Always.”

I kiss the tears from her cheeks, first one, then the other.

They’ve tracked to the side of her nose, so I kiss her there too.

I lick the salty moisture from the side of her mouth where one spilled.

She turns her face, claiming my lips, kissing me with all the fire and passion in her soul, and her soul is overflowing .

I can feel her holding herself back. Even though I was cleared by Archer to return to most normal duties and she trusts his opinion, resuming tasks and getting up closer and personal with skin that was just sewn back together is something else.

I break the kiss and grab the wand hanging at the side of the blinds over the sink.

I twist them closed, then take the bottle of champagne from Bronte’s hand.

She popped the cork, but it’s still in place.

I push my thumb against the base of it, releasing a stream of smoke just like in all those shows.

The bottle is no joke. It’s enough for a small household to celebrate with.

I’ve never had champagne and when I tip it to my lips and swallow, the bubbles tickle my throat, burning up my nose to my eyes.

It’s sweet and almost light and airy. I could see how this would sneak up on a person. It doesn’t taste like alcohol.

I fill my mouth, but don’t swallow. I set the bottle down on the counter and take Bronte’s chin between my fingers.

The light above the table illuminates the sheen in her eyes.

They’re so wide. She gasps when I glide my thumb along her bottom lip and press down.

Her mouth parts like she’s hypnotized by the sight of me.

I bring my lips to hers, allowing just a trickle of the champagne to trickle into her mouth.

She whimpers when the sweetness hits her tongue.

Most of the bubbles are probably gone and it’s been warmed by my mouth, but she appreciates the sentiment.

This is a first for us. It’s a little bit strange, but I also find it hot as hell, especially when she tangles her hands in my hair and slams her mouth to mine, encouraging me to flood her mouth with champagne.

She swallows rapidly, but some still spills out of her mouth and flows down her chin. I lap it up, hungry for the taste of her, aching to touch her.

I watched her get dressed earlier. I know that her stockings are thigh highs, held in place by a black lace garter. She put on the matching panties and the black bra, both delicate and tantalizingly lacy on under that dress.

I cup her breast over the dress. Her head falls back, but she takes my hand and moves it over her shoulder, to the base of her neck where the zipper starts. “This dress was my mom’s. I really don’t want to wreck it, and it’s much more fun with it off anyway.”

We’re in agreement there. I undo the zipper, which works like butter even though the dress is vintage, and help lift it over Bronte’s head.

Her hair is a mass of waves. I saw her working that magic with a curling iron earlier too.

The dress tugs over her hair, but it barely gets mussed.

She takes it and walks to the bathroom in the world’s sexiest getup, hangs the dress back on the hanger she left on the metal rack on the door, and then stops.

Literally, she just freezes, deer in the headlights style.

It’s probably the way I’m looking at her. In that case, more like deer in the wolf’s sights.

“This is new,” she hovers her hand down her body.

She normally doesn’t choose things like that.

She likes functional underwear, bras without underwire, most of it cotton.

She looks like she just stepped out of a lingerie store.

Her legs are endless in those stockings, her breasts pushed to perfect orbs in the bra, the panties cut low on her gently rounded hips.

“I feel a bit ridiculous,” she admits. “You can bathe me in champagne if you like, though. I’m not partial to any of this. It’ll wash just fine anyway.”

She’s so adorably nervous. I love the way her pulse throbs at her neck, the way her whole torso expands and contracts with every breath.

I’m going to blame the way I just snap on all the touching that we’ve been doing. I want to be inside of her so badly that it’s addled my brain.

I grab the champagne bottle and take a big swallow.

I stalk across the kitchen and wheel Bronte away from the door to keep the dress safe.

Before she can brace for it, I spit the champagne over her chest. It wasn’t a small mouthful and droplets of the sticky sweet liquid bead over her breasts, slicking down to her belly.

“Oh- oh my god,” she stammers. “There’s probably something wrong with me because that was hot. Seriously hot.”

I’ve made a mess of her and I’m going to clean up. Every last drop.

I steer her around to the counter and hoist her up, almost back in the same spot she was sitting. I take the bottle and upend it over her, pouring it over one breast and then the other. I make sure only a slow trickle comes out, but it’s still enough to soak her.

Her head falls back, those wavy curls brushing down against the small of her back. Her lips part and I kiss her violently, until she’s gasping and whimpering against my mouth. I want to linger there, but I can’t force myself to do it. I don’t have the control or the patience.

I tear at the clasp of her bra, freeing the tiny eyes from the hooks.

I tear it off of her and toss it to the floor.

She can’t help but make a small sigh at how good it feels to be freed from the underwire.

Her nipples are already tight, soaked and glimmering with a wet sheen.

I close my mouth over the first, sucking hard enough to make her cry out.

She buries her fingers in my hair, but she’s not asking for mercy.

Not even when I scrape my teeth over the tight peak.

She rocks forward on the counter and drags my face into her, mewling like an animal.

I cup her other breast while I suck her nipple, punishing her with my tongue and teeth. I knead the other nipple, pinching not so gently, but only because I know she doesn’t want me to be gentle. I know exactly where she feels it. She’s clenching her thighs together, rocking against the counter.

I didn’t just make a mess of her breasts. The champagne trickles down her belly and lower, to soak her panties.

To help soak her panties. I’m pretty sure they were ruined before I got the champagne involved.

I lick a path down her belly, laving up the spilled champagne. It’s a thousand times more delicious mixed with the taste of her skin. She parts her thighs for me, spreading her legs so wide that it has to hurt.