Page 31 of Dirty (Chicago Underground 5)
He pulled me down into his arms. It hurt again, in that old familiar pain, but I didn’t fight it this time. I let him hold me and rock me and soothe me, until the tears dried up and my hurt faded into tiredness. I drifted in the cradle of his arms, in and out of sleep. Slumber wasn’t a destination but a journey, allowing my body to rest and my mind to recover.
When I woke with a soft start, he soothed me. “Shh. I’m here.”
“Luke?” Sleep weighted my voice.
“That’s right. Go back to sleep.”
“Have you been awake all this time?”
“I told you. I usually stay awake after a rush like that. I’m fine, though. You should rest.”
“I want to stay up with you. To keep you company.” I struggled awake. My mind felt like it was underwater. I stretched a little and felt him tense beside me.
“Hold still,” he said tautly.
As awareness seeped into me, I recognized the sexual tension that he held at bay. It was more than passing arousal. Gentle tremors betrayed his restraint.
“Let me help you,” I whispered. “I want to.” At his hesitation, I said, “Don’t turn me away.”
He groaned. “God help me, I don’t think I can.”
When he rolled over me, it wasn’t with a savage lust. He touched me with infinite care, his hands on the most innocuous parts of me—the bare skin of my waist, the curve of my shoulder. If it weren’t for the hard brand of his cock against my leg or the gentle thrusts he seemed unable to control, I wouldn’t have known his urgency. But he held it in check, preferring to explore my skin with the gradual caresses of a reverent lover.
Heat flared through me, urging me onward, faster, oh God, more—I needed so much more. More pressure, more of Luke.
“Do you want…?” I caught myself.
“Want what?” he panted.
“Nothing.”
But he wouldn’t let me forget. Finally I muttered, “To kiss. It’s okay if you don’t.”
A shudder ran through him at my words. “You’re going to kill me, I swear it,” he said and then kissed me.
Chapter Sixteen
Warm. His lips, his hands, the tenderness he showed me. All of it filled me with warmth, from heart-full comfort to simmering sexual awareness. The brush of his bristled jaw sent sparks along my skin. His tongue pressed to mine, and I gasped into his mouth, breathing in his air, his scent, the care he imbued in every touch.
He slid his hand beneath my shirt, slowly, slowly, giving me plenty of time to stop him, while I counted the seconds until he finally touched me there. The feel of his hand cupping my breast sent a shock through me. A whimper reached my ears—it was me. I felt drugged, by him, by giving myself over with no business and no force. This was what I had demanded from him, the right to choose this, and now that I had it, the heady taste of him threatened to overwhelm me. I had wanted the power, but this felt like surrender.
In a brief show of impatience, he tugged my shirt over my head, tossing it away. I was unraveling here, coming apart at the seams, and who knew what would be revealed underneath. It didn’t matter, not when he put his mouth to my breast, closed his lips over my nipple, and flicked it with the soft wetness of his tongue.
He kissed my breasts with reverence, and a few seconds of false worship had my hips lifting up to him. Restless, I moved my legs, allowing him to fall between me, his hardness nudging against the fabric of the boxers I wore. He pulled back, though not enough to tear our clo
thes off and complete the act. No, he settled himself above me, content to touch and lick and tease. He was teasing me, I realized through my haze. Pulling back when I reached for him, stoking the fires so that I wanted more and more, helpless in his thrall until he decided to grant me release. I knew this trick. I had performed it so often from the other side.
“Don’t,” I murmured.
He paused, panting, then rested his forehead beneath my breasts. “Do you need me to stop?”
“Stop playing. Give me what I want. What you want.”
I expected him to deny it, to say that was what he had been doing all along. Instead he shook his head. “I can’t let go. It would be too much.”
He added as an afterthought, “For you,” and I wondered whether it meant the opposite. Whether it would be too much for him.
Stroking his hair, I felt a rush of longing. “I don’t want the watered-down version of you. I don’t want some experience you think I should have—the careful boyfriend, the gentle lover. I want you.”
