25: Raw and Reckless Part 02

“CeCe? Are you okay?” His voice was low, rough with a concern that resonated deep within me. I could feel the tension still coiled in his body, the aftermath of his protective fury. I nodded mutely against his chest, unable to find my voice, the image of those drunken faces, the slimy touch on my arm, still vivid in my mind.

Gently, he placed a finger under my chin, tilting my head up until my eyes met his. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, highlighting the lingering anger in his clenched jaw, but his eyes held a fierce tenderness as he looked at me. Tears, hot and unwelcome, spilled down my cheeks. His thumb, rough yet gentle, caressed my wet skin.

“Why were you out here alone?” His voice was a low growl, the protective instinct still raw. “Why did Julian let you come out here by yourself?” A flicker of something dark, something possessive, crossed his features. “What if I hadn’t come looking for you?” The thought seemed to genuinely anger him, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly on my back.

Asher’s features softened at the sight of my tears, the hard edges of his protective fury melting away, replaced by a raw tenderness that mirrored the vulnerability I felt. My arms wrapped around him instinctively, needing the solid reality of his embrace, the unexpected safety I found within his protective hold. He smelled of sweat and the lingering scent of the party – beer and something vaguely masculine that was uniquely Asher.

He started kissing me then, his lips finding mine with a desperate urgency that mirrored my own inner turmoil. The taste of beer on his breath, a familiar tang, mingled with the raw, earthy scent of his skin, a combination that sent a jolt of illicit heat through me. “Shit… CeCe…” he growled against my mouth, his breath hot and unsteady. His hand found mine, his grip surprisingly firm, possessive, as he led me back towards the house.

He pulled me into a dimly lit, vacant room – likely a dusty storage space, judging by the faint scent of stale cardboard and disuse that hung in the air. The sudden quiet was a stark contrast to the roaring party outside, a muffled throb that vibrated through the floorboards. The click of the closing door sealed us in our secret, fragile world, a temporary sanctuary from the chaos and the lies.

“Asher…” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper in the sudden stillness, the name a plea and a question all at once.

His gaze, dark and intense, locked with mine, his eyes tracing the curve of my face as if memorizing every detail. “CeCe,” he responded, my name a low rumble in his chest, laced with a raw need that mirrored the ache within me. He took a step closer, closing the small distance between us, his breath warm against my ear. “God, I need to feel you.” The whispered confession hung in the dusty air, a tangible thing that tightened the coil of desire already wound tight within me.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he murmured, his eyes dropping from mine to linger on the swell of my breasts beneath my thin top, a possessive heat flaring in his gaze.

My breath hitched. “And you’re all I think about,” I admitted, my own gaze dropping to the hard line of his chest, the memory of my hands on his bare skin a vivid phantom sensation. My hand lifted, hovering just above his arm, the air between us thick with unspoken longing.

“I need to feel your skin,” I whispered, the raw need a desperate plea in the quiet room, the memory of his touch a burning ache.

“Soon,” he promised, his voice husky with desire, his hand finally reaching out to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking the delicate skin with a possessive tenderness that sent shivers down my spine. The word hung heavy in the air, a promise of forbidden intimacy.

The first touch was a jolt of pure electricity, his hand gripping my waist with a possessive force that sent a shiver down my spine. He pulled me close, the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against my core through the thin fabric of our jeans, a blatant and thrillingly forbidden contact that ignited an immediate, visceral spark of desire deep within my belly. A gasp escaped my lips, a sound swallowed by the sudden, desperate pressure of his mouth crashing onto mine, a hungry claiming that banished the lingering taste of fear and replaced it with a raw, primal need that mirrored my own frantic longing. His tongue plunged deep into my mouth, a blatant invasion that mimicked the possessive thrust I craved, a desperate urgency resonating with the secret yearning that had been simmering between us for so long, a silent promise of deeper intimacies.

My hands, no longer hesitant, clawed at his shirt, bunching the damp fabric in my fists, desperate to feel the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips. Our bodies pressed together, the thin layers of clothing doing little to separate the frantic pounding of our hearts, the insistent friction between our hips a blatant testament to our mutual desire. The muffled bass from the party outside throbbed around us, a frantic, primal soundtrack to our stolen breaths and hurried touches, a rhythmic pulse that echoed the frantic beat of my own desire, a physical manifestation of the forbidden energy that crackled between us.

His fingers, emboldened by our proximity, found the hem of my shirt, sliding underneath to caress my bare skin. His touch was both possessive and tender, sending shivers of heat through me, a forbidden intimacy that both terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. His thumb brushed against the underside of my breast, making my nipple tighten instantly, aching for more direct contact.

His mouth left mine, trailing a hot, wet path down my neck, his teeth nipping gently at the sensitive skin, eliciting a soft moan that vibrated in my chest. His hand, still beneath my shirt, slid upwards, his fingers now fully cupping my breast, his thumb teasing my already taut nipple, drawing out a sharp gasp. The rough fabric of his shirt against my own sensitized skin was a delicious torment, a stark contrast to the soft, yielding flesh he now possessed.

"God, CeCe," he groaned against my throat, his breath hot and ragged, "It’s torture not being able to touch you.” His fingers squeezed gently, and a wave of pure sensation washed over me, a dizzying heat that spread from my chest down to the core of my being. My own hands, still fisted in his shirt, tightened instinctively, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of his body against mine.

He shifted slightly, his other hand now finding the curve of my hip, his fingers digging possessively into my flesh as he pressed his erection more firmly against me. The insistent pressure was a blatant demand, a silent echo of the ache that throbbed between my legs. A low whimper escaped my lips, a sound that was both protest and eager surrender.