Page 63 of The Captain
“You can be both,” he said, easing the wrap dress out of my hands so it puddled back onto the bed. His fingers skimmed the strap of my tank, heat ghosting my shoulder, and he kissed the nape of my neck—a soft brand. “You’ll be even sharper once I take the edge off.”
I should have told him to wait. I should have stepped away. Instead, I leaned back the smallest amount. The smallest amount was enough.
His mouth found my shoulder. Teeth. Tongue. A kiss that didn’t ask. It took. My knees went a little wrong.
“I’m supposed to be getting dressed,” I said, already gone hoarse.
“You are,” he murmured. “I’m helping.”
“By taking things off.”
“Efficient,” he said, and smiled against my skin. “Turn around.”
I did. My tank came off, shorts hit the floor. I stood there in bra and panties.
He looked at me like a man who’d followed a compass through three kinds of hell and found the thing it had been pointing at. His hand lifted. The back of his knuckles skated under my breast, slow. His other hand found my hip, thumb drawing lazy circles that made my head want to tip back.
“Touch me,” I said. Because I am a woman who gives clear orders when she wants something.
He did. Mouth to the center of my chest, heat and reverence and hunger in one bite. He worked the clasp of my bra with the kind of competence that should come with a warning label, slidthe straps down, and bracketed my ribs to lift me into his mouth. My vision went white at the edges. He sucked slow and then mean, drawing a primal sound out of me.
He dropped to his knees. Hooked his thumbs into the sides of my panties and watched my face while he dragged them down. I stepped out and he spread my thighs with his hands and set his shoulders under them like a man taking a weight he wanted.
“Bed,” I said, breath jagged.
“Mirror first,” he said. “Look.”
I looked. My hair down. My mouth already wrecked. Him on his knees, eyes dark, hands sure.
He went down on me like a man who’d memorized every twitch from last night and wanted the refresher. Tongue on my clit, patient, then pressure that made my hips forget themselves and chase his mouth. I caught his hair and he let me, sliding two fingers inside and curling just right. He watched my face like he was reading it. The wave gathered. He held me on the edge until I made a breathless sound, then pressed, and I broke.
I shook. He didn’t stop. Gentle circles until the aftershocks went soft. Then he kissed the inside of my thigh like a thank-you and stood in one clean line.
“Come here,” he said, and I did. He turned me, then bent me over the dresser as he freed his cock. The mirror was a frame around a decision I had already made. He pulled me back into him. One hand high on my chest to lift me, one hand low to line himself up. The first push was a long, thick slide that made me forget my own name for a heartbeat. The second found depth. The third found home.
“Like that,” I said, useless and honest.
“Like that,” he echoed, already moving. Short strokes that made me see stars. Then longer, slower, meaner. He sank in and held there until I squirmed, then did it again. His fingers slidto my jaw and angled my face so I could see us. My mouth. His eyes. The place we met.
“Look,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, and meant it.
He grabbed my hair and wrapped it around his fist to pull my head back a little, not pain. A claiming. He dragged his teeth along my shoulder and bit down enough to leave a mark that would make me blush when I dressed. His hand slipped down and found my clit and circled with that cruel kindness he has. I came hard, clenching around him, and he swore with real gratitude and drove in deeper to ride it out.
He pulled me upright, his chest to my back, and walked us the two steps to the bed without letting me go. I fell forward on my hands and knees. He held my hips and pushed back inside. The angle turned criminal. I dropped my head and begged into the sheets. He laughed, dark, happy, and slapped my ass once, not hard. Possessive. I pushed back into his hand because I am not innocent and he knew it.
“God, Camille,” he said, voice rough. “You make me stupid.”
“Good,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He set a rhythm that made thought a luxury again. The bed creaked its opinion. The room filled with water-slick heat that had nothing to do with the ocean. He reached around to rub me just where I needed and I broke again, hand fisting in the sheet, throat open. He followed with a sound like a man being forgiven. He stayed deep, pressed his mouth to my shoulder, breath hot, body shaking against mine.
We collapsed sideways, half-laughing, lungs empty. He kissed me like a thank-you. I bit his lip because I could. He made a pleased sound that I was going to hear in my head at the worst possible time later.
“Meeting,” I said at last, panting. “We have a meeting.”
He rolled onto his back and dragged a hand over his face. “You’re going to walk into a room full of officers with that mark on your shoulder.”
