Page 83 of The Captain
“Look at you,” I said, my voice rough. “Fucking perfect.”
She laughed, breathless, and reached for me, her fingers brushing my jaw. “Don’t stop,” she said, her voice a command wrapped in a plea.
I didn’t.
I dove back in, my tongue relentless, my fingers pumping in time with her hips. She was close, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in sharp, jagged bursts. I pressed my thumb to her clit, circling hard, and she broke, her body arching, a cry tearing from her throat that echoed off the bungalow’s walls.
I worked her through it, gentle now, coaxing every shudder, every pulse, until she went limp, her chest heaving, her hand slack in my hair.
I kissed the inside of her thigh, soft, reverent, then climbed up her body, my lips grazing her stomach, her ribs, the curve of her breast. She tugged me up, her mouth finding mine, kissing me deep, tasting herself on my tongue.
“You’re trouble,” she murmured against my lips, her hands sliding under my shirt, nails scraping my back.
“Always,” I said, grinning, and lifted her off the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist.
The kitchen floor was cool under my bare feet as I carried her to the living room, the worn rug soft against my toes. I set her on the arm of the sofa, her body still trembling, and she pulled me down, her fingers fumbling with my belt. I helped, shoving my jeans and boxers down, my cock springing free, hard and aching. She wrapped her hand around me, her grip firm, her thumb brushing the tip, and I groaned, my head tipping back.
“Camille,” I said, my voice a growl, and she laughed, low and wicked, guiding me to the sofa.
She pushed me down, straddling my hips, her knees sinking into the cushions. The living room was dim, the only light from a crack in the curtain and a single lamp in the corner, casting her in a soft glow, her skin golden, her hair a cascade.
She leaned down, her lips brushing my ear, her breath hot. “My turn,” she whispered, and sank onto me, slow, deliberate, her heat enveloping me inch by inch.
I cursed, my hands gripping her hips, her body a perfect fit, tight and slick. She moved, slow at first, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made my vision blur. The sofa creaked, the springs protesting. She braced her hands on my chest, her nails digging in, leaving half-moons I’d feel tomorrow. I thrust up to meet her, hard, deep, and she gasped, her head tipping back, her throat exposed. I leaned up, kissing the hollow of her neck, tasting salt and sweat, my hands sliding to her ass, guiding her faster.
“Like that,” she said, her voice breathless, her eyes locked on mine. I flipped us, pinning her to the sofa, her legs hooking over my shoulders. The angle was brutal, perfect, and I drove into her, each thrust pulling a sound from her that was half-moan, half-prayer.
I reached for a throw pillow, sliding it under her hips, lifting her higher, and she laughed, wild and free, her hands grabbing my face, pulling me down for a kiss that was all hunger.
The lamp flickered, the bulb stuttering like it couldn’t keep up. I slowed, teasing, dragging out each thrust until she squirmed, her nails raking my back.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, her voice sharp, and I grinned, picking up the pace, my thumb finding her clit, circling until her breath hitched and she broke again, her body clenching around me, pulling me over the edge with her. I came hard, my vision whiting out, my groan muffled against her shoulder as I buried myself deep, her name a litany on my lips.
We collapsed, tangled, the sofa too small for us but perfect, anyway. I shifted, lying with my head on her stomach, her skin warm and soft under my cheek. The lamp’s glow caught the curve of her ribs, the faint sheen of sweat, and I thought this was it—the most perfect position in the world.
Her fingers carded through my hair, lazy and gentle, the bungalow quiet except for the creak of the porch swing outside and the distant hum of early morning traffic.
She surprised me, her voice soft but clear. “Will you be mad when I get fat?”
I blinked, caught off guard, my brain still foggy from her. “What?” I mumbled, lifting my head slightly.
She rolled her eyes, her hand still in my hair. “When I have our babies, Jacob. Will you still want me then?”
I sat up, looking down at her, her face open, vulnerable in a way that hit me harder than her body had. I took her hand, guiding it to my cock, still half-hard, and wrapped her fingers around me. She laughed, the sound bright, cutting through the quiet. “As long as you look at me like this,” I said, my voice low, steady, “and as long as you hold me like this, I’m not going anywhere.”
She squeezed gently, her grin wicked. “That easy, huh?”
I lay back down, my head on her stomach again, my new favorite spot. “I don’t know,” I said, honest. “There’s a lot to work out. Dominion Hall, the Charleston Danes, all of it. It’s a mess. But you and me … yeah, it’s that easy.”
She tilted her head, her fingers pausing in my hair. “What about your other brothers? Do I get to meet them?”
“Of course,” I said, a grin tugging at my mouth. “I can’t wait to show you off. But it’ll take time. Marcus, Ryker, Atlas, and Caleb—they’re bringing them in one by one. Said it’s the only way to keep the Montana Dane knuckleheadedness from screwing things up. Can’t say I disagree.”
She sniffed, her hand resuming its slow stroke through my hair. “I’ll never understand men and their scheming.”
I laughed, the sound rough but warm. “And I’ll never understand female drama, especially teenage girls.”
Her fingers moved to my face, soothing, tracing the line of my jaw. “Poor baby,” she said, teasing. “Did a drama queen break your heart?”
