The smallest sound escapes him, an exhale that’s laced with surrender, and then it’s nothing but heat and inevitability, every thought I have reduced to him.
When I finally move, it’s not careful. It’s desperate, something wound tight inside me snapping loose.
His warmth seeps through the sheets, through me, until I can’t tell which heartbeat’s mine. He’s close now, his soap clean in the air between us, threaded with the faint trace of motor oil that never quite leaves him. It’s steady, grounded, so completely him—and it splits something open in my chest.
I turn my head before I can stop myself. The movement brings us nose to nose, breath mingling, his eyes darker in the dim light. For a second, neither of us says a word. The air crackles with tension, taut and charged.
“This is a bad idea,” I manage huskily.
“Probably,” he says. But he doesn’t move.
There’s a question in the air, an invitation, or maybe a warning, and I’m the one who answers it. My hand finds his shoulder, solid and firm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and then his mouth is on mine.
It’s not restrained. It’s days of pressure bursting all at once, every unsaid thing turning to heat. He tastes like toothpaste, minty and fresh, and when his hand slides to the back of my neck, I forget why I ever thought breathing was important.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Still think it’s a bad idea?”
“Absolutely,” I rasp. And then I’m kissing him again, hard enough that thinking stops being an option.
“Shirt off,” I pant when our lips break apart. “Need to feel you.”
His mouth curls, a little wild. “So now you’re okay with me in only my knickers?”
“I’d be more okay with you out of them, too.”
We make quick work of our clothes, desperate to close the distance that’s been killing us since our almost-kiss in the pub. Christ, he’s beautiful, even in the half-light. Bigger than me all over. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that feels built to lean on. And where my chest is smooth thanks to hoursof diligent manscaping, he’s got a light dusting of coppery hair I want to rake my fingers through.
He sucks in a shaky breath then releases it, making a sound that’s caught between a laugh and a moan. “As much as I appreciate the visual appraisal, I thought the objective was to touch.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. I start by exploring those sexy shoulders, moving down his arms and tracing the strength there, trying to memorize him with my fingertips. Then I give in to the urge to map the hills and valleys of his chest, following the trail of hair down the center until his muscles tense under my palm.
Through it all he’s remarkably restrained, almost vibrating with the effort not to move as he lets me take my time with him. Eventually, I reward his patience, reaching down between his legs to wrap my hand around his hard length. It’s hot and pulsing and, like everything else about him, bigger than I expected. I’m talking cancel-all-your-weekend-plans big.
“Fuck, Kip,” Hutch grits out, hips jerking once before he stills.
I hold back a little, trying not to smile. “Is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?”
He jerks his hips again, grinding into my palm. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re only just getting started.”
CHAPTER 14
Kip
I slide down Hutch’s body, positioning my mouth over his tip. He starts to thrust upward, but I plant my free hand on his stomach, stopping him. “Oh no, you don’t. We’ve got all night. We’re not rushing this.”
His hands fist the sheet. “You realize slow torture’s still torture, right?”
“Nothing wrong with prolonging the pleasure.”
I swipe at his slit with my tongue, lapping up a drop of precum. It’s thick and slippery and almost sweet, and it makes me want more so I take another swipe.
Hutch hisses, and his cock does a happy little dance in my hand. I tighten my grip on the base and give a long, leisurely lick up his length before I take him in my mouth, savoring the shiver that races through him as I work my way down inch by inch.
The next few minutes are a messy symphony of soft moans, short gasps, and breathless teasing, the playful tension making every touch feel electric. When I finally pull off him, I’m as hard as he is, both of us flushed and desperate for release. I’vealways been a fan of blow jobs, no matter which side of the action I’m on, but I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on from giving one.
“Fucking hell, Carmichael,” Hutch grunts. “If I don’t come soon, you’ll have to scrape what’s left of me off the ceiling.”