Chaos series by Kristen Ashley

And I wanted that so badly, I messed it up.

Completely.

It started after he got my T-shirt off. I immediately pulled his off and went right in, mistaking my aim and slamming the top of my head hard into his jaw. So hard he grunted and reared back.

We were both sitting up, but I was bent to him, so I lifted away and whispered, “Sorry.”

His eyes found mine, he drove his hands into my hair and pulled my mouth to his. Then he took us back down and it was all good.

It might have gotten better.

But instead it got worse when he had me on my back, was thrilling me with his tongue in my mouth, and he almost slid into second base, his rough, calloused hand so close to my breast I could feel the phantom of ecstasy I just knew it would bring, so I sucked his tongue too hard into my mouth as I dragged my nails up his side.

He broke the kiss and jerked away from my touch.

Humiliating.

Totally.

“I—” I began, feeling heat in my cheeks that had nothing to do with what he’d been doing to me.

“Relax,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I whispered back.

He bent to me and kept kissing me.

Then he kissed other parts of me. I liked it so much it was unreal. It took me out of my head and firm into what he was doing to me.

That was when I loved it, my body showing him by pressing into him, whimpers gliding up my throat, my hands moving on him feverishly to take in the warm, sleek hardness that was him everywhere.

He did things to my breasts that Aaron had done but I didn’t think of Aaron because Aaron was forgotten with the way Joker did it. It totally obliterated Aaron’s memory.

I knew why.

There was more feeling behind the touch, the taste, the sensations. More passion. More experience. More talent.

More everything.

I felt it. I sensed it. I loved it.

Then he drifted down, his lips moving over my belly, his hands to the button of my jeans.

Once he had it undone, he shoved up to his knees, straddling me, and dazedly I stared up at him.

I missed the beard.

I loved the hair.

Gosh, he was amazing.

That face. Those eyes molten and staring down at me. His face hard and handsome.

His chest…

I tensed as he unzipped my zipper and shifted to yank my jeans down my legs.

That did not thrill me because his chest was all I could see.

And his arms.

Perfection. Cut collarbone jutting shoulder to broad, defined shoulder. Bulging biceps. Prominent veins lacing his inner and outer forearms. His ribs were delectable ridges. The boxes of his abs were deep and distinct. And he had tattoos that I couldn’t take in fully with everything that was happening, but they still were fascinating.

Then there was the V.

The V.

The muscles around his hipbones delineated in sharp relief leading into the waistband of his faded jeans.

He wasn’t amazing.

He was flawless. He was every woman’s computer wallpaper. He was three-story tall billboard ads.

He was dazzling.

And I was not.

“Joker,” I called as he pulled my last Converse off.

His head turned to me.

“I—” I started, gliding my hands over my belly, all that had gone before lost. Lying in his bed, all that was me with all that was him, I wanted nothing but to get up, get dressed, and get away.

I didn’t want him to see me.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

I shook my head. “I don’t think—”

He looked away and tore my jeans over my ankles.

“Joker!”

He surged over me, up on one hand in the bed beside me, arm straight, his eyes sheets of liquid steel.

“Do not,” he growled.

“I’m not sure—”

His hand hit me palm flat between my breasts and glided down.

“You want this,” he stated.

I had.

Now I wasn’t sure. I’d conked him on the jaw, scratched him too hard, nearly sucked his tongue down my throat, and I had a baby belly (not to mention a baby behind which, fortunately in my current position, he couldn’t see).

His hand kept going, relentlessly shoving between my arms that were surrounding my stomach to hide it from him.

“I want this,” he kept talking.

I wanted to believe that.

“You’re flawless,” I whispered.

His hand slid into my undies, his finger dipping deep, dragging hard against my clit. I lost all thought as his touch made my back arch right off the mattress and my hands shoot up, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans. My eyes closed and a moan tore up my throat.

“So are you,” he muttered gruffly, dragging his finger back and doing it harder.

“Oh my,” I breathed.

“Yeah,” he ground out, pushing, dragging, circling.

Oh my.

“Joker,” I panted, unconsciously lifting my knees and spreading my legs to give him better access.

“Fuck yeah, Carrie,” he groaned as he shifted so he was no longer straddling me but positioned between my legs.

“Don’t stop that,” I begged, opening my eyes, trying to focus on his, pressing into him, feeling it building, all he was giving me, and doing it squirming. “Please.”

He didn’t do as I asked. He dragged his finger hard against my clit again and buried it inside me.

Oh yes.

My neck arched back, my head pressing into the pillow, my eyes closing again as I pushed down into his hand and moaned, “Okay, you can stop the other, stick with this.”

“Anything you want, Butterfly,” his voice came at me, thick but amused as he pulled his finger out and thrust it in. He did that awhile, I rode it awhile, writhing, panting, exhilarating, then he pulled out and thrust in two fingers as his thumb came to my clit.

My body jolted and I took one hand from his jeans to wrap it around his wrist to keep him precisely where I needed him to be.

“Oh God,” I breathed, my eyes opening, “Yes. That. More of that.”

“Yes. That,” he grunted, his voice no longer amused and now so thick, it felt like a hot touch, coating me. “More of that.”

I tried to take in the expression that went with his tone but I couldn’t. I was close and spiraling closer very, very quickly.

“You ready for me, Butterfly?” he asked.

I’d never been more ready.

“Yes,” I panted. “Yes, now, Joker. Please.”

I lost his fingers but I didn’t lose the feelings because of the hot, violent, delicious way he tore my panties down my legs.

I gasped and felt his weight bearing into my left hip as I heard a drawer open and him order, “Help me out, Carrie.”