Page 112 of Trusting You

He reaches down, tips his dick up, but doesn’t go further. Though it probably kills him, he waits. For me.

I lick my lips, still swollen from his kisses last night, and he makes an approving mmm sound at the sight.

Taking over, I move his hand aside and do the directing myself, but slowly. Ever so excruciatingly, for both of us, his expression an exact copy of mine, because it’s agony not to take all of him in one passionate plunge. But it’s the most delightful torture.

I see him through half-lidded vision, my lips parting, my chin tipped up enough that he can come up and nip at my jaw, which he does.

“Vixen,” he rumbles into my ear, and I smile. “May I?”

I lean back from his face, studying.

“I want to fuck you against the wall,” he says frankly, but his eyes are twin flames. “And I need your permission to do so since this is your show. So, Carter Jameson, may I fuck you against the wall?”

I’ve never had any man be so succinct on what he wanted to do to my body. All I can do is nod.

A smile ghosts his lips, and he lifts us up. My legs wrap around his waist, and he moves us to the sidewall, the instant freeze of the plaster tingling through my spine until it meets the heat at my center.

Locke sounds out a low grown as he pushes in, my cry in harmony with his until I grit my teeth and pant with each thrust, desire coating my lips. Locke takes his time. Long, hard strokes as he buries his face in my neck and shoulder, exhaling in tandem with his motion. I dig my nails into his shoulder blades, wanting him closer, deeper—always wanting—until there’s more of him left than me.

“Please,” I find myself saying.

Locke’s hands tighten on my thighs, and he lifts off my neck so I can see him. His firm grip anchors me to the wall, his movements fervent, directed to one purpose, his upper lip curling at the feat.

I keep his stare, establish my dominance when I move my hips to meet his. I dig my fingers into his hair, and bring him down for a final, passion-soaked kiss, taking us both over the beautiful, brilliant, jagged edge.

* * *

Lily alertsus to her wakefulness as we’re panting in the aftermath, my feet on solid ground, yet still feeling light as air. Locke’s resting both his arms on either side of me, his head bowed as he catches his breath.

“What happened to the sports athlete?” I say, laughing quietly.

“I’ll admit, I’m a little winded.”

“And your knee?”

At that, he pushes off the wall. “How ‘bout I tell you when it’s hurting, instead of you asking.”

I bite my tongue and hesitantly move around him, collecting one of his tees off the floor and throwing it on.

“I apologize for that,” he says behind me, and I notice he slumped onto the bed, elbows on his knees.

“It’s a touchy subject,” I say in understanding, then head out of the bedroom. “I’ll get her.”

“Wait.”

I stop at the doorframe, one hand on it as I turn.

“I suck at this. This…” He waves his hand between us. “The after.”

Laughter bursts from me. “I’m aware.”

“Can we be together today? Just hang, the three of us?”

His question surprises me, and I can’t ignore the pleasant warmth, like embers glowing behind my ribcage. “Sure. This morning I have to pop over to Pierce’s, get the check for my painting, but after that, let’s do it.”

“How about I bring Lily by the coffee shop? I can take a look at your art show.”

Warmth hits my cheeks. “It’s not…it’s not a gallery or a show or anything like that.”