I’ll Always Be With You (Lancaster Prep Book 4)

IT’S the way he watches me, his expression completely unguarded. None of the defenses or walls are up, it’s just West studying me with pure emotion shining in his eyes. All of that emotion is for me.

And no one else.

My body still shaking with the remnants of my orgasm, I carefully climb off his lap, my dress falling to my feet in a soft heap. I kick it aside, completely naked, as I head for my bedroom, but West remains in place on the couch like he can’t move.

I stop, glancing over my shoulder to find him watching me with a burning intensity that could probably scorch me where I stand. “Are you coming?”

“I’m about to,” he says as he leaps to his feet, heading straight for me.

Before I can move, he’s got a hold of me, tossing me over his shoulder so my head is hanging upside down, my hair covering my face. I squeal and pound on his back with my fists, nervous as he carries me into my bedroom, carefully dropping me onto the bed.

“Are you a caveman?” I ask once I’ve got my hair out of my face.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, already undoing the buttons on his sleeves before he reaches for the front of his shirt. “Apparently.”

I don’t complain. How could I? He picked me up with such ease, which is a complete turn-on.

Everything he does turns me on.

I scooch backwards on the bed, propping my back against the pile of pillows, slowly spreading my legs so he can see every part of me. I’m too far gone to care anymore. The embarrassment is gone. The worry over what he might think of me, or that he might touch me, gone.

I want all of it. I want him to see me, to want me, to touch me. My body feels like it’s vibrating, I’m so aroused. And I came only minutes ago.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to the spot between my legs. I swear I get wetter just from him staring at me.

“Hurry up,” I urge, resting my hand on my stomach before I start to slide it lower.

He stops unbuttoning his shirt. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“You like to watch?” Who am I right now? I remember when he asked me that same question two years ago. In my dance studio that one night. I hold my fingers just above my pussy, my clit tingling in anticipation.

“I like to watch you,” he clarifies. “Touch yourself, Carolina.”

My fingers go lower, not quite there yet. I’m completely waxed—it’s just so much easier while dancing—and I wonder if he likes it too. “Tell me what to do and I will.”

I’ve masturbated before. Lately, to thoughts of him late at night while still in my bed, unable to sleep. My mind too full of him, going over our conversations, the way he looks at me. The things he says.

“Use your middle finger,” he suggests, his voice hoarse. “I want to see my ring on your cunt.”

My pussy floods with moisture at his choice of words and I do as he says, my finger sinking between my lower lips, the large ring protruding between them as I test the wetness there. I spread my thighs wider, showing him everything I’ve got, my finger poised and ready to do his bidding. “What next?”

“Touch your clit.” I do as he asks, sucking in a harsh breath. “Rub it.”

I rub the distended bit of flesh, my legs already shaking, on the verge of orgasm just from the heat of his gaze, the lightest touch of my finger. The ring is heavy, a reminder of what it represents and I lazily stroke my flesh, everything inside of me throbbing.

“Slip a finger inside. Your middle finger.” His voice is low. Extra deep. He sheds the shirt, letting it drop, and I stare, my mouth dry as I take him in.

He’s just as glorious as I’d hoped. All smooth skin over ridged muscle. His pecs are firm and his stomach is almost a washboard. I’m around beautiful bodies day in and day out, including male ones, but no one makes me feel like West does.

I push my finger inside me, until the ring stops my progress and hold it there, letting my pussy get used to it. I don’t really fuck myself with my fingers. More like I test. I play. I pay attention to my clit more than anything else because that’s what gets me off.

“Fuck yourself.” I do as he says, my finger thrusting, my body squeezing around it, needing more. Needing something thicker. “Yeah, just like that.”

Tilting my hips up, I fuck myself harder, my thumb brushing against my clit, the ring rubbing against my sensitive skin too, making me light up. It’s all too much. Not enough. I need something more. Something harder. Something bigger.

“Stick another finger inside you.” I do it automatically, stretching myself full.

A moan falls from my lips and I rest my head back on the pillows, my eyes closed as I fuck myself harder. I’m so wet, the juicy sounds are obvious, and any other moment I would be embarrassed.

But not now. Not here. It’s so much better, knowing he’s watching me. Telling me what to do.

Next thing I know he’s on the bed, lying between my spread legs, his face right at my pussy. He pulls my fingers out, wrapping his lips around them and licking them with his tongue, and I lift my head, whimpering as I watch him lick them clean.

Just before he dips his head and licks me from ass to clit.

I swear to God I scream, my hands immediately going to his hair, tugging on the soft strands as he laps at my clit, circling it over and over. I hold him to me, my grip strong like he’s going to stop, but he doesn’t. He keeps licking and sucking as if he’s enjoying his favorite meal, his hands sliding under my butt so he can hold me to him. His fingers tickle at my crack before they slide lower, brushing against my asshole and I stiffen.

“You don’t like that?” My hands fall away from his hair when he lifts his head, his mouth wet from me, his brows furrowed in question.

“I just—I don’t hate it.” I bite my lower lip, feeling shy. How do I explain to him that I’m willing to do whatever he wants, wherever he wants to? I’m only hesitant because I’ve never had someone touch me there before, but I liked it.

I did.

“I want to taste you everywhere.” He sticks his tongue out, licking me in an exaggerated manner that has my heart racing and thighs quaking. “I want to fuck you with my mouth and my fingers and my cock.”

I can’t speak.

“I want to fuck your cunt and your ass and your mouth. I want to come on your face. I want to come inside you.” He frowns. “Are you still on birth control?”

“Yes.”

“Thank Christ,” West mutters just before he draws my clit between his lips.

That’s all it takes. A couple of tugs from his lips, his tongue laving against the sensitive bit of flesh, and then I completely fall apart with a keening cry, my fingers plunging into his hair yet again as I pull it tight. He never lets up, his mouth moving against me, drawing the orgasm out until finally I’m pushing him away, unable to take it anymore, rolling over on my side when he lifts up from me.

I’m still shaking, trying to control my breathing, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, still licking at his lips.

Filthy man.

Taking slow, deep breaths, I eventually calm my racing heart, my gaze locked on West as he takes off his pants, kicking them aside. His cock strains against the front of his cotton boxers and my entire body lights up.

He’s about to take those boxers off when I stop him with a question.

“Why don’t you ever take off your watch?”

It’s the same one he’s worn since high school. Heavy and expensive with that wide, steel band. He glances at it, his gaze lifting to mine, and I swear his cheeks color with …

Embarrassment?

It comes back to me then. The edge of a tattoo.

I sit up fully. “Let me see it.”

“See what?” He’s playing stupid on purpose.

“The tattoo.”

“What tattoo?”

“The one beneath the watch.” I roll my eyes when he hesitates. “I know it exists, West. I saw it once.”

His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You did? When?”

“Halloween night our senior year.” The first and last night we spent together, just before our entire world shifted.

“So you know what it is.” His voice is flat. Tinged with worry.

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean, ‘not quite’?”

“West.” I shift so I’m on my hands and knees, crawling across the bed until I’m right in front of him. I rise up on my knees and wag my hand at him. “Let me see.”

With extreme reluctance, he holds out his hand palm up and I reach for the clasp of his watch, carefully undoing it. The band goes loose and I slide it off, the watch landing on the mattress with a soft thud, neither of us caring because I’m staring at the tiny tattoo and he’s staring at me.

My lips part and my mind races. Wait a second. I …

I recognize that.

“That’s my drawing.” My gaze lifts to his, his face like a mask. I absolutely cannot read him. “From the night in Paris.”

He exhales, worry etched in his features. “Yeah.”

“You had it tattooed on your skin?”

Swallowing hard, he nods.

“This is permanent.” I rub at the tattoo like I expect it to smear.

“No shit, Carolina.” He doesn’t sound amused, but he doesn’t sound angry either. I can’t figure out what his mood is.

I curl my finger around his wrist and trace it along the delicate edges of the costume I drew on his skin. The straps, the bodice. The little dots I added that were supposed to represent sparkles. The layers of tulle that make up the skirt. I’m no artist and I made the drawing so quickly. The memory is still vivid in my mind. The sensation of his warm skin beneath my fingertips, how he held himself there so carefully while I drew on him, his gaze never straying.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I finally say, meeting his gaze. “Why did you get this tattoo?”

He shrugs, seemingly uncomfortable, and when he tries to pull out of my hold, I don’t let go.

“Why, West?”

“It was stupid. I wanted to remember the night. Remember you. You left an impression.” His gaze drops, like he can’t look at me when he admits, “I wanted you to always be with me, even in such a small way.”

My heart aches at his words. At the meaning behind them. “So you had someone tattoo it on your skin.”

“Right after I left you on the street. I went straight to a dingy tattoo parlor and asked the artist to draw over it. He thought I was crazy.”

I stare at it yet again, touching it. “I love it.”

“You do?” He sounds surprised.

Nodding, I lift his hand to my mouth, brushing a soft kiss to the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. “It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Sweeter than the flowers?”

I nod.

“Sweeter than the ring?” He lifts his brows when I let go of his hand.

“The ring is pretty sweet.” I smile.

He cups the side of my face, his finger drifting down my cheek. “It was an impulsive decision that I was sure I would regret once it was over and I paid for it.”

Of course, it was. He barely knew me. We should’ve never seen each other again.

“But I don’t regret it, Carolina. You’ve always been with me. Both on my skin and in my heart.” His smile is rueful. “That was cheesy as hell, but you know what I mean.”

I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck, our upper bodies pressed close. Skin on skin. He feels so good. My breasts crushed against his wall of muscle, his heat seeping into me.

He realizes it too. I can tell by the way his hold on me changes. Becomes firmer, pulling me closer. I can feel his erection brush against my stomach, even through the soft cotton of his boxers, and I reach for him, my finger sliding over him, making him groan.

Oh God.

I think I’m falling in love with West Fontaine.