Never Say Forever

I don’t need four hands. I just need his as excitement washes through me as he draws my underwear down my legs. He unhooks my bra faster than a man can say—

“Open for me, angel.” His voice is somewhere between a breath and a groan as I widen my thighs. I can feel him behind me, sense his eyes on me.

And I want this. Want him watching. Because he’s mine. All mine. He isn’t at some fucking club, being touched by anonymous hands. He’s here with me, looking at me, wanting me.

As much as I want him.

“Like that?” I whisper, sliding my legs a little wider still.

“Yeah, just like that. You are some fucking delectable sight.”

As he turns me this time, it’s to seat me against the edge.

“One of us is wearing far too many clothes,” I whisper, beginning to unfasten the buttons of his shirt as his hand lifts to his mouth in an attempt to hide a smile. A mouth that, just moments ago, was coated in my arousal. Arousal that coats his thumbs as his large hands move to press my thighs wider, shirt forgotten.

“You look like a wet fucking dream.” His gaze is hooded. He stares down, his smile no more as he presses me wide. “Like you were made for me.”

‘Yes,” I agree a little breathlessly, grounding myself by gripping the smooth edge of the table. “I want you so badly I almost can’t take it.”

His eyes track up from their focus between my legs. His voice is dark as he asserts, “But you will. You’ll take it all.”

He pulls his half-unfastened shirt over his head before he makes quick work of his belt, his cock bouncing between us, rude and ruddy. I sigh as he presses hard to soft, swiping his silky crown against me.

I pull his mouth down to mine, shuddering at the brush of him, sucking hard on his bottom lip.

“You’d tempt the devil.” His assertion betrays a tremulous smile, contradicted by the dark look in his eyes.

“He does seem to be at the doorbell again. He’s just not using his fingers to ring . . it.”

Carson chuckles, yet his movements are so practised, his wide crown gliding past my entrance to caress my clit before sliding back again.

“I can’t hear the noise for my pulse,” he groans.

“Open wide,” he whispers.

“I’ve heard about men like you before,” I answer with a sly smile, right before he kisses me.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Not a bit.”

“Clever girl,” he whispers, pressing the glass he holds in his hand to my lips. I groan as the fiery liquid rolls across my tongue, and as I swallow, Carson follows the motion with his tongue.

“I want to feel myself here.” A kiss. A lick. “Feel you spasm around me.” His dark and velvety words set off a series of empty ripples between my legs. As his tongue swipes my lips, I taste myself very briefly, gasping at the splash of liquid between my breasts.

“Oh, it’s cold!” And then it’s hot as his tongue follows the trail, sucking, licking, his hum of appreciation making me ache with need as he takes my nipple into his mouth. But then I’m crying out as something cold and smooth begins to circle my other nipple. The ice—his fingertips—circling my nipple in a divine kind of torture.

His hot mouth engulfs the hard nipple, his tongue an exquisite contrast against the sting of cold. My moan is so loud as I realise where he intends to place his chilled fingers next, a smile so wicked pressed against my breast.

My body surges against the chill of his fingers as he presses against my clit, then pinches it. Tortures me just a little until I’m a squirming, pleading thing.

“It’s almost as though you don’t like it.”

“You’re mean.” I don’t have the wherewithal to pout, though my response seems to take care of that anyway.

“However will I make it better?” he purrs as the subtle shift of our bodies brings us closer. And without any real thought for my actions or the consequences, I move against the press of him with a libidinous exhale.

Another growl, another undulation, and he glides, part perfection, part tease, through my wetness once again.

“Cold,” I moan, canting my hips.

“So fucking hot.” His answer is rough, his gaze fixed to where we almost join. “I’ve never. Not like this.” His words are halting and strained, their significance rocking through me and rattling my brain.

Maybe I shouldn’t trust him. Many women wouldn’t. A man with his past. But if I can trust him with my heart, my daughter’s heart, I can trust him with my body.

I’m so wet that, with the smallest change in angle, I know he’d slip inside.

“I want you. Need to feel you,” I whisper as I move instinctively against him, my insides yearning to be stretched by him.