I brace one arm under her lower back and adjust my angle, rolling my hips so I hit that tender spot inside her. Her whole body jolts. A shiver runs up her thighs.
“I’m—”
“Let go,” I whisper against her mouth.
And she breaks.
Her pussy clenches in fast, relentless pulses, her hands fisting in my hair as a fierce climax rips through her. I feel every one of those spasms milking my cock.
I fuck her through it, giving her every inch, letting her ride it out against my chest.
When she finally collapses back onto the blankets, gasping, I pull out slowly.
“Flip over,” I say softly.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed, overwhelmed with pleasure—but she obeys. I guide her onto all fours, positioning her exactly how I want her. Chest down, ass up, legs spread for me.
“That’s it,” I murmur, running my hand over her hip, then dragging my thumb down the slick crease between her thighs. “So pretty like this.”
She shivers, gripping the blanket.
Then she looks back at me over her shoulder, hair falling down her cheek, the mark of my earlier kisses on her neck. Her pussy is swollen, wet, open for me.
I grip her hips and sink into her again — this time in one long, heavy thrust that has her dropping her head forward with a moan.
“God, Lila,” I groan. “You feel unbelievable.”
I build a rhythm, slow at first, letting her get used to the angle — then harder, deeper, the slap of our bodies echoing in the quiet cabin. She pushes back on each stroke, matching my pace, taking every bit of me.
Her voice breaks. “Holt—please?—”
Holy hell, she’s begging me for more, my amazing girl. I grip her hips tighter as her pussy begins to pulse again. “Take it. All of it.”
“Yes,” she gasps.
When she squeezes around me a second time, tighter than before, my control snaps.
I thrust hard, filling her with deep, claiming strokes, and the release hits me. Thick spurts flood her, my body locked to hers as I come inside her for the first time.
Her back presses tight against mine.
Everything in me roars one truth:
She’s mine.
And she’ll always be mine.
12
Lila
The first thing I feel is warmth.
Not from the fire—it’s just embers now—but from the body pressed around mine. Holt’s chest against my back, solid and warm, his breath steady on my shoulder. His massive arm is wrapped around my waist, keeping me close.
We didn’t make it to bed last night. When sleep finally claimed us, we stayed snuggled up in blankets in front of the fire.
For a long time, I don’t move. I just lie there and breathe him in—his spicy, masculine scent, the quiet rumble in his chest every time he exhales. My muscles ache in ways that make me blush, but it’s a sweet, spent kind of ache. The kind that says we’ve crossed the point of no return.
