Page 9 of Claimed By Daddy
I jump back, startled as Carver steps out, his gunmetal gray eyes wild and his cheeks flushed. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his temple, capturing my attention for a moment. His crew-cut hair and square jaw give him an almost mean look, but he isn't. I think there's softness underneath that grumpy gruffness. He just hides it well.
A sense of raw masculinity and wild power radiates from him, as tangible as the heat blazing in his eyes. There's no hiding the power lurking under the surface where he's concerned. He's beautiful in a way that's completely foreign to me, fascinating in a way that should terrify me. I don't think I've ever met a man like him.
The fabric of his gray sweats clings to his muscular thighs and the bulge between his legs as he stops in front of me. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his massive biceps straining against the thin material of his white T-shirt. The thick, corded muscles ripple under his sun-kissed skin every time he breathes.
God, he's gorgeous. Rugged and masculine in a way that makes my body hurt.
"Um, I…" I search for something to say, but I can't think of a single thing when I heard him in there, groaning my name as he touched himself. That deep, gravelly moan made my toes curl. Even now, my entire body throbs at the reminder of the deliciously wicked sound.
He glances down, meeting my gaze. A blush sweeps over me, probably turning me red from head to toe, and I quickly dip my head, hiding my eyes from him.
No one has ever looked at me the way he does, as if he's a dying man in the desert and I'm an oasis. No one has made me feel the electrifying sensations buzzing through my body whenever his eyes are on me, either. It's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, and I don't understand it.
I understand desire and the concept of sex. I know I'm ungodly attracted to him. I may be a virgin, but I'm not stupid. That's not what I'm talking about. This is something different, something that makes simple desire look flat and lifeless, dull and uninspiring.
But I should be afraid of him. He's a complete stranger, and he was just in the bathroom, masturbating. Yet I'm not afraid. When he pins me with those gorgeous eyes, I feel intensely, overwhelmingly safe. I want his arms around me, his heart beating against my ear. And when he rewards me with one of those rare smiles, I want to find a thousand new reasons to make him give me another one.
That's not normal. None of this is. The feelings coursing through me aren't remotely close to rational. I know I shouldn't stay here with him tonight…but I'm staying anyway. Because I'm desperate for more of him. More of this. Even if I'm not quite sure what this is.
I peek up at him from beneath my lashes to find him still staring at me like I'm an oasis.
I lick my lips, and a growl rumbles in his throat.
Oh, I like that sound. I like it a lot.
He takes a step toward me.
"There's only one bed," I blurt, wringing my hands together when he immediately freezes in place.
Oh, sure. Now I find words.
"We're sharing," he growls, those gray eyes boring into mine.
My heart races at his response. I should tell him no. That's what any sane, rational person would do, right? Say no and carve out a little distance between us before this gets out of hand. But I don't say that.
Why don't I say that?!
My feet betray me, moving almost of their own volition as I follow him across the living room to the bedroom, anticipation coursing through me in a powerful flood.
Once the door closes behind us, he quirks a brow at me, almost as if he's proud of me for being so brave…or daring me to keep being this courageous.
I practically race across the floor to the bed, not because I want to claim it first, but to escape his intensity for just a moment. It's like he knows exactly what effect he has on me, how he makes me want to squirm with need. And I'm pretty sure he likes it.
His chuckle rolls through the room, gruff and rusty, as if he doesn't laugh often or nearly enough. But the sound vibrates through me, anyway, setting off a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
Instead of climbing up on the bed, I turn back to him, unable to help myself. It's like he's a magnet, drawing my gaze back to him no matter which direction I turn.
Every ounce of moisture in my mouth evaporates as he peels his shirt off over his head, revealing the body beneath. Dark hair covers his chest, leading down to a rock-solid set of abs. The ink painted across his golden skin is a tapestry of black and faded colors, each tattoo a story etched into the muscle beneath. Silvery scars intersect the tattoos, creating a map of pain and beauty on his body.
Judging by the crest tattooed on his bicep, he was an Army Ranger. It explains his ridiculous body. He's a warrior like Atlas, big enough to carry the whole world on his shoulders.
Every muscle ripples and shifts with his movements, each one honed from years of physical discipline and strength I'll never possess. He's the epitome of pure power and raw strength, and my fingers itch to reach out and trace the lines of his body, to feel that power for myself.
He kicks his shoes off and then yanks his pants down, leaving him standing in front of me in nothing but a pair of boxers that barely contain him. The front is tented obscenely, a wet spot visible on the fabric. As soon as I see it, my mouth goes dry.
I press my thighs together, fighting a whimper. All I can think about is how big he is pressing against the cotton of his boxers. And how badly I want to see what's beneath them.
I've never wanted anything like I want this. I've never hurt for anything the way I hurt right now. Whenever I try to make myself come, I'm always left unsatisfied. Something is always missing.