Page 68 of Stick Break
“So good,” he growls back, and when I drag my nails down his back, he shudders, then starts to move faster, harder, like he’s chasing something only I can give him. We’re tangled, eyes locked, rising and falling in perfect sync. His jaw tightens, his control hanging by a thread.
And then he grinds just right, sending sparks through me like wildfire. My whole body clenches, pleasure tearing through me as I fall apart around him.
“Rip,” I scream, not caring who can hear us.
“Yes, babe,” he groans, thrusts stuttering. “Take what you need.”
He pushes deep, wringing my orgasm out, prolonging it with every thrust and then he throws his head back and groan.
I feel him lose it too, feel everything pour into me as he kisses me deep and hard, like he can’t let go of anything—not the moment, not me.
“I feel you,” I whisper, and I do. Every pulse, as he pours into me and kisses me deep, hard, like he can’t let go of the moment…of me. I kiss him back and when our bodies come back down, he shifts to the side, pulling me close to him, instead of pushing me away.
“I take it back,” I say, giggling now, high on everything.
His brow lifts. “Take what back?”
“That it was false advertising. You gave it to me.” I cup his cheek, drunk on affection. “You gave it to me good.”
He kisses me, his voice rough against my lips. “There’s more where that came from…”
God help me.
More might just ruin me.
17
Rip
I roll over in bed, and for a heartbeat, and my heart soars when I find Charley there, still asleep. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, falling across her bare shoulder, her cheek pressed into the pillow, lips parted just slightly. Peaceful. Like the world finally gave her a moment to rest.
A wide grin curls across my face, and my chest pulls tight in the best kind of way. I reach out, brushing my hand down the slope of her spine, the curve of her waist, memorizing the shape of her in the quiet. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, like she’s holding the sun beneath her surface.
The covers are half-kicked off and bunched at the foot of the bed. As I lean forward to tug them up, something catches my eye, a small, delicate tattoo on her hip. A butterfly made of musical notes. I blink, stunned that I haven’t noticed it before. Then again, every time I’ve had her naked, I’ve been too overwhelmed to see anything other than how badly I wanted her. How she completely undid me.
“Like what you see?” Her voice is scratchy with sleep, low and amused.
I glance up. She’s watching me, a lazy smile on her lips, her eyes still heavy-lidded.
“Always,” I say, voice low and honest, then lean in to kiss her. Soft. Slow. Like I have all morning, when really I do, but I don’t have forever…not with her. When I pull back, my gaze drifts again to the tattoo. “This is beautiful. I didn’t notice it before.”
She stretches, breath catching just slightly, and gives me a look that’s half shy, half resigned. “Mom and Dad hated tattoos. Said they were trashy, rebellious.” She snorts. “That’s me, rebellious, remember.”
“I do remember you saying that, but I don’t get it, Charley. I don’t know why your parents thought you were a rebel or disobedient, or a troublemaker. The first thing you wanted to do was give the guitar back, when you thought it was lost. Then there’s Emma. She adores you and you’re giving up your time to teach her a few notes and look at ‘Betsy’. It only took five minutes with you, before you had her wrapped around your finger. You’re kind, compassionate, and everyone who meets you loves you”
Loves you.
She arches a brow, and I say, “Anyway, go on. Tell me about this.” I lightly trace the butterfly.
“I knew getting it would only validate everything my parents said about me, and maybe it did. But I wanted it, So I got it somewhere they’d never see it. You’d have to be paying attention to notice.”
I don’t think her parents were paying close enough attention to what their daughter needed from them, and that makes me sad.
“I’m paying attention,” I whisper, fingers brushing gently around the edges of the ink. “The music I get. But the butterfly?”
She hesitates, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if looking for the words. “They always wanted me to be what they envisioned. The perfect daughter. Polished, obedient. There was no room for color. No room for mess. But music…” Her voice softens. “Music gave me space to feel. And the butterfly… it’s freedom. It’s growth. It’s mine. I wanted to mark the moment I stopped living in a box and started becoming who I really am.”
I study her, not just the tattoo anymore, but the story etched beneath it.
