by Nicci Harris
His hands span my bum cheeks, fingers squeezing and spreading the smooth plump flesh. At the feel of his tongue lapping at the fabric between my thighs, soft sounds of pleasure escape me.
While all of my body is on the hard wall of his, while he licks at my wet knickers, his groans are that of someone indulging - low, deep, and primal. His featherlight caresses send me out of my mind with need.
The sound of my knickers ripping sets the warmth in my belly to boil. He slides them aside and oh my God, his tongue. Both palms knead my bum, forcing my wet lips into his mouth as he eats me in a frenzy.
And he's no longer slow.
My head is suddenly dizzy.
And I've never loved being short and petite more than I do right now. Even though I can’t reciprocate, I'm literally laying on a Max Butcher mattress while he devours the flesh between my thighs.
I try to keep up with all the sensations now overwhelming me, but whereas Max is usually methodical, precise - like licking me to a climax is an artform - right now he's wild. Completely animalistic. I roll my hips into his tongue's shallow thrusts and firm licks. His mouth doesn’t insist on but instead demands my orgasm. The course texture of his jawline creates the perfect friction on my sensitive, smooth skin.
It comes without warning. The wave of my desire hits my thighs with a jerk. My legs squeeze against his face. Erupting inside me, pleasure fills me. I let out a longing cry as the muscles between my legs pulse around his tongue.
My body tingles from my toes to my scalp. Max keeps licking me even as I become more sensitive. "Max," I plea, pushing up so that I can suck his hard ridge, which is only inches from my face.
He squeezes me harder, holding my pelvis to his face. "More."
His finger teases my bum-hole, drawing circles around it. I can’t help but pucker against him. Sliding his hand down the crease of my backside, he replaces his tongue with his fingers. He strokes me, collecting up the slickness of my desire.
"You're always so wet." He cups me firmly, and I pulse against his palm. "Fuck. This is mine. Don't ever take it away from me again. You're going to sit on my face all night. And I'm going to fuck both your holes with my tongue and finger until you pass out." His fingers move back to that private part of me while his mouth moves back to my clit.
I press my cheek into his hot, firm abdominals as, inch by inch, he slowly fills me with his finger. The sounds coming from me now are more like yelps. I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. For the first time in a week, we are alone in our world again.
A trusting world.
His teeth latch onto my clit, his tongue flicking the pinched bud. His finger stills inside me as the muscles surrounding it beat and squeeze. He releases my clit. "I'm going to fuck this with my cock one day, little one." He curls his finger inside me. "Then you'll really feel me everywhere." He starts to massage his finger in and out of me.
My orgasm thrashes through me. I scream, clenching my fists, feeling the pleasure set fire to my insides. It hits my ears and stars my vision. It's a beautiful, overwhelming feeling that is so rocking I'm mewling around on top of him.
Gradually, Max guides me off the precipice. He slowly pulls his finger from inside me but continues to lick up the result of my arousal. I nuzzle his abdomen -high on him- while he strokes my backside and kisses my clit softly.
As the night continues, he brings me to two more orgasms. All the while, I lay on his body in a daze of pleasure.
After the third, I feel myself drifting into a coma of exhaustion.
Easing my sluggish body from him, Max moves me around the mattress until my cheek sinks into his pillow. As my senses flutter away, chasing the sweet closure slumber brings, I hear him whisper, "You're all I want."
Cassidy
* * *
As I shift from asleep to awake, the words Max whispered to me last night float through my mind. Did he literally mean 'I'm all he wants'? Like, he doesn't want anything else?
Or anyone else?
Does he know? Does he know that a whole new identity will soon be demanding my time and his?
Knowing I have to tell him this morning, flutters begin to build in my chest. My heart beats so hard I'm scared I'll wake the gorgeous, broody man sleeping beside me.
I want him to be okay with this. When I tell him, I want him to say that it's okay. That we'll work it out. Together.
I just need to hear that because people are going to speculate. I know how they will view our situation, gossiping to no end about how I've snagged Max Butcher by getting knocked up. But what worries me most of all is. . . will he think that too? I pushed him into wanting this - me. Frick. That truth hurts even though it shouldn’t. I should accept my truths and yet, they are often overlooked - purposely overlooked. Had I not pursued him, he might have lost interest in me. He said as much himself a few nights ago. I made him want this. I don't want to make him do anything. . .
As the light glows through the thin sheath of skin over my irises, my eyes flutter open. The dawn peeks above the roof tops of Connolly. I'm on my side, his warm body curled around me. I wriggle against him, feeling his legs shuffle to accommodate my movements.
"Don't move," he groans sleepily.
I still and watch the horizon as it explodes in colours so vivid they almost seem unnatural. I think about my new future. Think about the baby in my belly.
The light moves into our room, creeping across the floor and onto the tattooed arm slung over my waist. He breathes rhythmically behind me, asleep once more, leaving me to watch the sun fully rise.
Taking a big breath in for courage, I shake his tight hold enough to spin towards him. I burrow my face in his chest, my nose twitching against soft hairs, my cheek vibrating in time with his beating heart. And that smell, frick. It's enough to make any girl drop to their knees. Pressing my chin to his rising chest, I peer up at him. His eyes are closed, but his brows are furrowed as if the light has invaded his slumber too.
"Good morning," I whisper.
Warm hands move up the length of my spine and into my hair. With his eyes still closed, he strokes me from my crown to my neck, and I watch his face as he does. His sigh rumbles against me. A knot rolls down his throat as he grips my hair, squeezing his fingers into his palm to lock the strands in tight.
When a soft whimper leaves me, he relaxes his hands. "Cassidy."
I stroke my fingertips softly down his cheeks and wriggle up the mattress until my lips meet his. The edge of his pillow supports my head as I kiss him. Lazy kisses that slowly draw him from his sleepy state. His tongue moves across my lips and he releases a longing groan. The hand hooked over me slides down to cup my backside, lifting me up against his erection, before pulling me on top of him.
"Wait," I breathe into his mouth. But while he stops the direction of his hand, his hips still roll as if he can't control them.
"I'm going to fuck you, little one," he growls, opening his eyes, and oh my gawd, his eyes. They're so blue right now. Usually, they are clouded with shades of grey, but in the direct sunlight of dawn, they are piercing.
At the feel of his erection tapping against me, my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head with lust. "I need. . . to talk to you."
His nose meets mine. "Talk."
Frick. So, Max, I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant. Stop doing that with your hips. We are having a baby. Ugh, stop touching me like that. There is something you need to know; I'm pregnant. I somehow got pregnant. . .
"I'm" –the words expand as I force them through my larynx– "pregnant."
Oh.
My.
God.
He stills.
The fingers spanning my hips freeze. Nose to nose, the increase in his breathing is palpable on my cheek and against my chest. But at least he's breathing; he's not paralysed by the idea.
My throat tightens, an involuntary response that often precedes tears. Heat hits the back of my eyes, but I ignore it, not wanting my tears to fall down on his face. He continues to breathe de
eply.
Finally, after what feels like the longest few moments of my life, he clears his throat and speaks against my lips. "What about ballet?"
What?
Slowly sliding me off him, he sets me down on the mattress. Within seconds, he's on his feet and moving across his room, pulling his clothes on.
I breathe in fast and hold it.
As he walks from the room, I watch the door shut behind him. Hot tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. He's just processing, right? Like I had. Just taking a few moments to organise his thoughts.
Did I do this wrong?
I knew I had to tell him before he went downstairs because Bronson would have expected as much. But now that I have, I'm alone. And his absence makes my heart sting.
I stare at the closed door as if my answers lie there.
I finally breathe out hard.
After several minutes, I lie down and curl in on myself, clutching my knees to my chest. Blinking tears from between my lashes, I wait for him to come back. Not over analysing this is the key to remaining calm, to not completely breakdown into a sob - the threat of which stokes my ragged breaths. I just need to take his sudden absence for what it is - processing time.
Remain calm, Cassidy.
I will my heart to stop burning.
The door swings open and Max strides in with a phone clutched to his ear. As I sit up, the sheets drop to expose my naked torso. The cold air tweaks my nipples. Max's demeanour, hot and powerful like a live wire, causes my heart to beat in an erratic cadence.
But he is far too preoccupied with the gruff voice on the other side of the phone to notice me. He stops by the bed and, with one hand, begins to remove his clothes again.
"That wasn't a question. I will need more men." His tone is all business. The person on the other side of the phone speaks, but their words are muffled by Max's cheek. "Right." He hangs up and finishes removing his clothes.
As the last item of his drops to the floor, all I can do is tilt my head in confusion. The sequence of events that have just unfolded aren't exactly what I had imagined. They are rather weird to say the least.
"Max?" I say because what else do I say?
A physique made for destruction crawls onto the bed and up my body until I drop back to allow him to hover over me. Intense, searching grey-blue eyes bore into mine as he settles himself up on his elbows. With his hands in my hair, warm fingers stroke my face and trace my freckles.
"Yes?" he whispers, watching his fingers map my every feature.
I giggle at the absurdity of this moment. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Max."
His brows form a tight line above his penetrative stare. "For what?"
"Cause. . . um. . ." I falter. "I don't know."
He studies me as if he's unsure of what to say. Max Butcher is a man of few words. He doesn't shower ideas or confessions or inspirations around for all to enjoy. But he usually has a stance. Right now, though, he's contemplative.
He gazes at me. "I should leave. I should leave you and this baby, and you'll be safe."
My whole world shifts, and I whimper. "You won't do that though," I say, my voice panicked, my throat burning.
"No. I won't," he states definitively. "Because I'm a selfish prick and I want you."
I try not to weep with the feel of relief. "I want you too."
"You shouldn't."
"I'm not afraid of your world anymore, Max. The only thing that scares me now is not being there for you. With you."
He exhales, following his finger as it moves across my cheek, gazing at my hair winged out around his pillow. "This will be your decision then."
Air seems to thicken, so I open my mouth.
He continues, "I'm not going to let anyone make decisions for you anymore."
I shake my head. "I don't understand."
"Say, Max, let's make a baby."
And the air is now like tar - so dense I can't draw it in. "What?"
He dips his head down, his lips meeting my ear. "Say it and then I'll fuck you."
I'm actually panting now. "I - I don't-" I stammer. "I still don’t understand?"
Oh my God, what is he saying? What is he talking about? Is he okay with this?
He pushes himself up, leaning on one forearm. Grey irises nail me to the mattress, demanding, dead fricking serious.
And yet, I struggle to form words.
"I told you, Cassidy," he says, a hint of some kind of emotion knotting his voice up - anger, maybe, guilt, perhaps. "I fucking swore it. I'd never let anything happen to you again. I fucking said it and now something has. I need you to say it. Or I've failed you again."
Tears squeeze from the edges of my eyes, painting salty streams down my temples and on his pillow. "No, Max," I say, pressing my hand to his perfectly coarse cheeks. "I know you are still getting used to me being a constant in your life. This can't just be my decision-"
His face tightens. "Who said that?"
My breath catches at his suddenly fierce expression. "What?"
"Who fucking said I'm still getting used to you?"
Blinking the tears out, I shake my head once. "No one, but-"
"Have my actions not been clear?"
"Um, yes," I say because they have. I think. "I just feel like this is all a lot for you. Up until a few months ago, a girlfriend was worse than polio and now-"
The fingers in my hair twist, tethering me to his fists. "I'll spell it out then, Cassidy. I want you here. Every day. In my fucking bed. I'm not getting used to you. You are what I want. I thought I made that clear already."
He leans down and kisses a tear as it falls. This is all too much. I think he's saying he's okay with this? That this is happening? That he supports my decision? Is that what's fricking happening right now? "And the baby?"
"Just say the words."
Knowing this is his way of gaining a sense of control, claiming the situation we have found ourselves in, I slowly say, "Max, make a baby with me."
He grips my jaw, his fingers pressing into my cheeks. His lips meet mine softly, completely contradictory to the firm hold he has on my face. As his tongue touches my lip, I open my mouth and massage his with mine. Kneading. Dancing together in a collective rhythm of need and love and acceptance.
When one of his hands moves down to hook my leg over the back of his thighs, he begins to stroke his body against mine. His lips journey around my face as he releases my jaw. Careful not to lay too much of his weight on my body, he moulds me, manhandling me into position. His erection is pressed, hot and hard, between the lips of my sex. My core clenches in anticipation of being filled so fully at any moment.
He rolls his hips up and down, stroking himself between my wet lips. Groaning at the sensation, his mouth becomes more frenzied. Nipping. Licking.
I drag my fingers lightly up his back while he moves to grip his erection. Holding me stationary with one hand, his fist picks up pace, the brunt of it meeting my sex. I hold my breath, helpless against the pressure of him on top of me, caging me. And when he moves his hand away, nothing separates us.
His hips pump shallowly into me, forcing his huge pulsing erection in, spreading me wide. Letting out long, whimpering moans, I grip his biceps. Brace myself. He pushes in. Pushes further. I thought I would get used to the feel of his girth, the breadth of his hips, the heat of his body, but I haven't.
It's as all-encompassing as it was the first time.
He sinks into me until I'm full of him; a dull ache inside me warns me of his depth. "Don't underestimate my feelings for you, little one." He grunts, thrusting in a possessive way, wanting to claim, to mark. "Nothing could be more dangerous."
He draws back a few inches and pushes in again. I cry out, my core locking around him, clamping down tight.
"Yes," he growls, starting to really move. "So tight, little one. I wouldn't fit if you weren't so fucking wet for me all the time." He buries himself in deep, my li
ps hugging the root of his erection. He abruptly pulls out only to thrust in again. And again.
"Max." I mewl beneath him, holding on to him as he rocks us. Fills me. Empties me. The power in his legs can be felt against my thighs. His balls slap at the puckering hole of my bum - the sensation so subtle and yet so arousing. Long strong arms caress every inch of my body.
"You're perfect." His lips meet mine and we kiss, our bodies moving in time now, sliding together. Synchronised.
Every thrust seems to connect us deeper, push him further into me until the onslaught of my orgasm begins to gather in a hot ball in my belly.
It explodes.
The pressure of which moves through my legs, forcing them to squeeze his hips. As it crashes down to my toes, they curl in tightly. Shaking uncontrollably, I pulsate around his thrusts, crying out and actually crying because I've missed this so much. Too much. I don't want to separate us again. I do trust him with me.
His mouth stills against mine as he concentrates. As his movements become more urgent, I know he's close too. The beat of his hips gets faster. He thickens. One of his hands fists the skin at my backside while the other seizes my neck, and he begins to pump cum inside me. Filling the room with his groaning, he doesn't slow down until the pulsing of his orgasm mellows.
He rains kisses down on my face, over my lips, jawline, and neck. Slowly, we ride the wave out together, settling down into a sensual pool of chaste caresses and gentle touches.
Still inside me, he thrusts slowly.
"I love you, Max Butcher," I whisper.
"I don't deserve you" –he presses his lips to mine– "Cassidy Slater. I'm keeping you anyway."
Max
* * *
My fingers skate over her beating heart and down to her trim abdomen where I know something profound is taking place. Something she's not ready for. Something I did to her and can't undo. As she sleeps soundly on her back, I softly trace the smooth white skin on her stomach. My chest contracts, tightens, burns, and it's a feeling I'm not interested in analysing. She is in my bed again and after what I did last night, fuck.
