Chapter 159 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 42

Chapter 159 THE WRONG CONCLUSIONS - 42
VIVIENNE

When I stepped back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around me, Cole was sitting on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking up from the book he was holding.

His eyes met mine.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

There wasn't any awkwardness in the silence, only something warm that settled between us so naturally it felt as though we'd been moving towards it all evening.

I walked over until I was standing between his knees.

"You were reading," I said softly.

"I was trying to."

"And?"

"I don't remember a word of the last page."

A smile tugged at my mouth.

"No?"

He shook his head.

"I got distracted."

My hands settled lightly on his shoulders, and I felt his palms rest against my waist with that familiar gentleness that always seemed to ask before it assumed. His thumbs brushed absent-mindedly against my skin beneath the edge of the towel, slow enough to send a shiver through me, and when I looked down at him he was already watching me with that same impossibly patient expression I'd come to know so well.

I leaned down until our foreheads touched.

"You keep looking at me like that."

"Can you blame me?"

"No," I admitted.

"Good."

He smiled before kissing me, unhurried and lingering, one kiss becoming another until I forgot what either of us had been about to say.

I broke the kiss just enough to breathe, and his hands slid from my waist to my hips, fingers pressing gently through the towel. My own hands moved from his shoulders into his hair, thick, soft, the way it always surprised me, and I tugged, just barely, pulling his head back so I could look at him.

He let me.

Cole had a way of letting me have whatever I wanted and making it feel like his idea. His jaw was sharp in the low light, his mouth still wet from mine, and when his thumbs traced circles against my hipbones I felt it everywhere, that slow drag of attention spreading warmth through my stomach, down between my legs.

"Tell me what you were thinking," I said. "When you got distracted."

His hands stilled.

"I was thinking about the way you looked coming out of the bathroom." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "Water still on your shoulders. The towel sitting just above your knees. And I thought, I'd really like to be the one to take that off you."

I felt my breath catch.

"Then take it off me."

He didn't rush. His fingers found the fold of the towel at my hip, and he tugged the edge loose, slow enough that I felt every millimeter of fabric losing its grip. The towel slipped, and I let it, let it fall to the floor, let the air hit my skin, let him see all of me standing there in the soft lamplight.

Cole's hands settled on my bare waist. His thumbs swept up, tracing the curve of my ribs, and he leaned in and pressed his mouth to my stomach, just below my navel, a kiss so soft it was almost reverent.

I swallowed hard.

His lips traveled, slow, across my hip, then back toward my center, each kiss landing like a question I kept answering by not stepping away. My fingers tightened in his hair. His breath was warm against my skin, and when he looked up at me from where he was, his eyes were dark and steady.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm not."

But I was. A fine tremor running through my thighs, my stomach. Not from cold.

He smiled, barely, and pressed another kiss just above the curve of my hip, his nose brushing against my skin as he breathed me in.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and the way he said it, like a fact, like something he already knew and was only confirming, undid something in my chest.

I pulled him up by his shirt, and he came willingly, standing, his body flush against mine. My hands found the buttons of his shirt and worked them one at a time, slow, matching his pace, because neither of us was in a hurry. The fabric parted. My palms spread across his chest, warm and solid, and I pushed the shirt off his shoulders.

He let it fall.

We stood there for a moment, skin to skin, and I let myself feel it, the heat of him, the weight of his hands at my lower back, the quiet hush of breathing that was all there was in the room.

Then he walked me backward until my knees hit the bed, and we went down together.

We landed in a tangle of limbs and breath, his weight settling over me, one forearm braced beside my head as he looked down. The lamp behind him threw his face into shadow, edge-lit his shoulders, caught the dust-mote quiet of the room.

He dipped his head and kissed me again, not the unhurried kiss from before, but something hungrier, his mouth parting mine, his tongue sliding against mine in a stroke that made my hips shift beneath him. I felt the sound I made vibrate through his chest, and he answered it with a low hum that traveled down my spine.

His mouth left mine and trailed along my jaw, soft and deliberate, pausing at the hollow beneath my ear where my pulse jumped against his lips.

"You're fast," he murmured against my skin.

"Fast?"

"Your heart." His hand slid from my ribs to the center of my chest, palm flat. "Right here."

I covered his hand with mine.

"Yours isn't exactly slow."

He smiled against my neck, and I felt it, the curve of his mouth, the warmth of it, the way it sent heat pooling low in my belly. His lips traveled lower, brushing over my collarbone, and when he reached the swell of my breast he paused, his breath warm and uneven.

I arched into him without meaning to.

He took the invitation. His mouth closed over my nipple, slow, his tongue circling before he drew me in, and the sound I made this time wasn't quiet. His other hand found my breast, thumb sweeping across the peak he wasn't working with his mouth, and he kept that rhythm, steady, patient, like he had all night and intended to use every minute.

My fingers threaded through his hair, holding him there. His tongue flicked, soft, then harder, and I felt it everywhere, that pull, that heat, gathering low and heavy.

When he lifted his head, my nipple was wet and tight and cold where the air hit it. He switched sides without a word, and I let my head fall back, let my body open to him, let myself feel every slow pass of his tongue, every graze of his teeth, every breath he took against my skin.

By the time he pulled back, I was half-aching.

He looked at me, and his eyes had gone dark, not urgent, not rough, but dark in that way that meant he was paying attention to every small thing I did.

"You're doing that thing again," I managed.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look at me like you're memorizing me."

His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, soft.

"I am."

I pulled him down and kissed him, deep, and his thigh slid between my legs before I realized what he was doing, the pressure of it, the drag of muscle against the heat that had been building there. I gasped into his mouth and he moved against me, slow, a rhythm that made my hips roll to meet him.

His hand traveled down my side, over my hip, across my stomach. His fingers splayed there for a moment, warm and still, as if asking.

I nodded.

He didn't rush. His hand slid lower, palm curving over the jut of my hip, fingers trailing through the soft hair between my legs, and then, slow, so slow, he touched me.

One finger, light, tracing the length of me, parting me, finding how wet I already was.

He made a sound. Low. Guttural.

"God," he breathed, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. "You're..."

His finger circled, slow and deliberate, finding the place that made my hips stutter, and when he pressed just there, just right, my whole body tightened around nothing but his touch.

"Look at me," he said, voice rough.

I forced my eyes open.

He pressed again, watching my face, his finger moving in slow circles that sent sparks up through my stomach, through my chest, through every part of me.

"Like that?" he asked.

I couldn't speak. I nodded.

His mouth found mine, and he kissed me through it, through the slow, building pressure of his finger working me, through the way my breath started coming in pieces, through the way I gripped his shoulder like I needed something to hold onto.

He added a second finger, and I arched off the bed.

His fingers moved inside me, slow and deep, and the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the weight of his body beside mine, the way his palm pressed against me with each thrust. I could feel myself gripping him, that involuntary clench, and he felt it too — I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his rhythm stuttered for half a beat before he steadied himself.

"Yes," I heard myself say, barely a whisper.

He curled his fingers, searching, and when he found what he was looking for I saw stars, white and sharp and sudden, my whole body seizing as he pressed against that spot again and again, his thumb circling my clit in time with each stroke.

"That's it," he murmured against my throat. "Let me feel you."

I was already close. Too close. I tried to warn him, tried to say something, but the words came out broken, his name, mostly, and a sound I didn't recognize.

He slowed.

Deliberately. Painfully.

I made a sound of protest, and he laughed, low and soft, pressing a kiss to my sternum.

"Not yet."

"Cole…"

"I want to taste you first."

The words landed in my stomach like heat, and he was already moving, his fingers slipping out of me slow enough that I felt every inch. He kissed his way down my body, my ribs, the dip of my waist, the jut of my hip, and I felt his breath against my thighs before his mouth reached me.

He looked up once, from where he was settled between my legs.

His eyes met mine. Dark. Intent.

And then he lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue was so soft I almost couldn't tell where his breath ended and he began, a slow, broad stroke from bottom to top, gathering everything, tasting me like I was something he'd been waiting for. The sound he made, low against me, vibrated through my whole body.

My hands found his hair.

He licked again, slower, circling my clit with the tip of his tongue, and I gasped, a sharp, broken sound that I didn't try to hide. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider, and he settled deeper between them like he intended to stay there forever.

He worked me with a patience that was almost unbearable. Long, languid strokes of his tongue, interrupted by soft flicks that made my hips twitch. He'd pull me into his mouth, sucking gently, and then release me only to start again, each time building the pressure a little higher, a little closer to the edge I kept hovering on.

I could feel myself talking, bits of words, his name, please, don't stop, but I couldn't hear myself over the rush of blood in my ears, the wet sound of his mouth on me, the way he moaned against my skin like he was the one being devoured.

He slid two fingers inside me again, still working me with his tongue, and the combination of it, the fullness, the pressure, the perfect rhythm of his mouth, sent me hurtling toward it.

"Cole… I'm..."

He doubled down. His tongue flattened, pressed harder, his fingers curling into that spot as I shattered against his mouth, my body bowing off the bed, a cry tearing out of me that I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried.

He stayed with me through it. His tongue softened, gentled, drawing out every last pulse of it until I was trembling and oversensitive and pulling weakly at his hair.

He kissed his way up my thigh, my hip, my stomach, leaving a trail of wet warmth. When he reached my mouth, I tasted myself on his lips.

I reached for the nightstand without breaking the kiss, my hand fumbling in the drawer until my fingers found the foil square. I pressed it into his chest, and he broke away just long enough to tear it open, his eyes never leaving mine.

I watched him roll it on, the way his hands moved, sure and steady, even now, and then he was settling over me, his forearms caging my head, the tip of him pressing against my entrance.

He didn't push. Not yet.

He just waited, hovering at the edge of me, his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged and shared.

"Ready?" he asked.

I answered by lifting my hips.

He slid into me in one slow, unbroken motion, inch by inch, stretching me, filling me, until he was buried to the hilt and we both stopped breathing. I felt him everywhere. The weight of him, the heat, the way my body gripped him like it had been waiting for this all along.

He stayed still, letting me adjust, his mouth pressed to my temple.

"Okay?" he whispered.

I nodded, and he moved.

Slow at first, deep, rolling thrusts that rocked my whole body with each one. His hips pressed against mine, ground into me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to pull him deeper. His mouth found mine, open and messy and full of breath, and we moved together like we'd been doing this forever.

He reached between us and touched me where I needed it most, his thumb pressing in time with each thrust, and I felt the pleasure building again, slower this time, steadier, like a tide I could feel coming from far away.

But it wasn't enough.

Not anymore.

I wanted more. I wanted him to stop being careful.

My hand found the back of his neck, and I pulled his mouth to my ear.

"Harder," I said.

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second, and I felt it, that split second where he checked in without words.

I dug my nails into his back.

"I mean it. Fuck me harder."

Something in him shifted. His eyes went darker, his jaw tighter, and when he pulled back and drove into me, it wasn't gentle.

The bedframe hit the wall.

I gasped, a sharp, full-bodied sound that turned into a moan as he did it again, harder, his hips slapping against mine, the rhythm turning punishing and perfect. His hand left my clit and grabbed my hip, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise, and he fucked me like he'd been holding back this whole time and finally decided not to.

"Yes," I breathed. "Like that."

He slammed into me, and I cried out.

His other hand wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, just there, a warm pressure that anchored me, that made me feel owned in the best possible way.

"You want it rough?" he growled, his voice low and wrecked. "Tell me again."

I looked up at him, breathless, and smiled.

"I want it rough."

He pulled out almost entirely and drove back in, so hard my head knocked against the headboard. He caught it with his palm, shielding me, still fucking me deep and fast and brutal, and I came apart beneath him with a sound I didn't recognize.

He followed me over, his body going rigid, a groan torn from his throat as he buried himself deep and stilled, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing.

Then he pulled out, slow and careful, and collapsed beside me, pulling me into his chest.

His hand found mine, and he pressed a kiss to my hair.

"Hi," I whispered, voice wrecked.

I felt him smile against my scalp.

"Hi."

We fell asleep afterwards.