The loss of his fingers was tragic – but she replaced them with her own, sliding in with two and reaching not as deep, but at least not staying empty.
“Christ,” he muttered, gaze trained on the movement of her hand as he tore at his belt and fly. Pushed down his jeans and boxers without ceremony. He fumbled with his boots a moment, and then gave up, left them on, crowding in close to her again.
The angle wasn’t right, they weren’t lined up perfectly – but it didn’t matter, Leah thought vaguely, as ripples of heat surged through her. She wouldn’t last, and she didn’t figure, judging by the proud jut of his fully-hard cock, that he would either.
He was flushed, and leaking, and this part of him was as pretty as all the rest. With the hand that was wet and slick from seeing to herself, she gripped him, stroked him root to tip.
He hissed through his teeth – and then his fingers were back at her sex, three this time, pushing in, stretching her. His thumb found her clit and rubbed.
Leah pitched forward, braced a hand on his shoulder, and worked his cock in long, firm pulls. Until his hips were kicking, and he was fucking into her fist, the slide wetter on every pass as he continued to leak.
He dipped his head, and she lifted hers, and they surged into a clumsy kiss. It was mostly panting, just breathing against each other, little bites, and flickers of tongue. She started moaning and couldn’t stop, vocalizing every breath. His fingers were so good, but his cock would be even better; she clenched around him, with her sex and with her hand. He fisted his free hand in her hair, pulling just hard enough to send little shocks of sensation along her scalp–
And that was what tipped her over.
She gasped against his mouth, twisted her wrist, and felt the hot jets of his release against the insides of her thighs as she came in a shocking blast of pulses and, yes, the hoped-for starbursts.
~*~
They leaned against one another for long minutes, catching their breath, working one another through the aftershocks. And then they reclaimed their respectively slippery hands, locked gazes…and laughed. Low, tired, deeply warm laughter that unknotted the last of the day’s tension in Carter’s chest.
He felt like an idiot kid, coming all over her and not inside her, but she’d come, too, hard, his palm full of slick, his fingers crushed tight; the sounds she’d made. The way she’d touched herself, bold and hungry and…Jesus.
Even as the afterglow set in, he wanted her again. Wanted inside her.
“Did you say something about nachos?” he asked, still panting.
She gripped his neck in both her little hands, heedless of his release spattered across the one, and dragged him down into a kiss no less heated, even if it was slower and lazier.
“Fuck nachos, take me to bed,” she said.
Thank God. “Yes, ma’am.”
Thirty-Five
Ava hovered over Millie’s temporary crib, debated leaning in to kiss her sweet, round cheek, and decided not to disturb her sleep. Over on the bed, both boys were sacked out, exhausted by a rousing game of indoor tag that had thankfully resulted in only one bumped-into table, and one skinned knee. Clean, all snuggled into their pajamas, they slept on their sides facing one another, dark hair and light, both with Mercy’s luxurious black eyelashes fanned on their cheeks.
Night, babies, she said silently, heart overflowing with love, and stepped out into the hall and eased the door shut, baby monitor crammed in her back pocket.
She and Mercy were going to spend the night in the dorm right next door, and he must have come in while she was checking on the boys, because she could hear the faucet running through the open door. She slipped in and closed it; set the baby monitor on the dresser.
The door to the en-suite stood open, too, and Mercy was at the sink – he had to bend down a little because he was so tall, and the vanity had been set at a height for average-size Dogs – thoroughly scrubbing his hands, soap suds spread up to his arms while he worked a bar of harsh soap against his nails. When Ava propped a shoulder in the threshold, and glanced down into the sink basin, she saw that the water swirling down into the drain was tinged pink.
The soap was yellow.
“Hey, baby,” he greeted, lifting his head to meet her gaze via the mirror, grinning. His smile was full of gladness and affection, but his dark eyes still had that faintly-glazed look they always had after an interrogation. His blood was still up, even as he washed the blood from between his fingers. “Kids okay?”
“Fast asleep next door. They had an exciting day.”
“Yeah? I bet.”
“Seems like you did, too,” she said, smiling.
He set the soap down, and began the rinsing process, smoothing pink-tinged suds away with his broad, tan, callused hands. “More exciting than most,” he agreed, a little smug.
Ava had long been aware that the surge of approval she felt wasn’t exactlynormalin polite society, amongst nice young couples. You weren’t supposed to be proud of your man’s viciousness; shouldn’t feel glad that he’d cracked open a tacklebox of tools and hooks and knives and forcibly extracted answers from an enemy of the club.
She’d been aware – but she wasn’t going to waste a second on berating herself, or him. They were club; they didn’t have to be normal. To hell with polite society. The ugly things he did kept their family safe, and that was all that mattered. If he enjoyed it in the process – well, everyone needed an outlet of some sort. Mercy’s just happened to be violent.
