He laughs, a broken, disbelieving sound, and kisses me hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
He kisses me again, deeper, and starts walking me backward toward the blankets. The canvas rustles softly, lantern light swaying as we move. My heels hit the edge of the sleeping bags and I sink down onto them, pulling him with me. We end up half-kneeling, half-sprawled, hands everywhere and it’s still not enough.
He breaks the kiss long enough to look down at me, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. His fingers move to the buttons one by one, not rushing, and that slows my heart even as it speeds it up, if that makes any sense. He pushes the fabric aside, hands sliding over my skin, thumbs brushing the sides of my breasts, I suck in a breath. He watches my face like he’s memorizing every reaction, then leans down and presses a kiss in the center of my chest, right where my heartbeat is kicking hard against my ribs.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Liar,” I say, but it comes out shaky.
“Don’t argue with me,” he says, and his mouth moves lower.
He kisses the swell of one breast, then the other, slow and reverent, before his hands slip behind me to unclasp my bra. I shrug it off my shoulders and let it drop somewhere into the shadows. The cool air hits me for a second and then his hands are there, warm and sure, cupping, thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arch into him without thinking. He groans, low and rough. “Fuck, Delta.”
He lowers his head, takes one tight peak into his mouth, and everything inside me goes hot and soft. I thread my fingers into his hair, anchoring myself. He gives equal attention to both sides, pacing himself because he’s got all night and I’m something to savor, not rush through. By the time he lifts his head, my breathing is wrecked.
“Lie back,” he says softly.
And I do, the blankets are plush beneath me, the lantern painting shadows across the roof of the tent. He follows me down, kissing his way over my stomach as his hands move to the button of my jeans. He looks up, waiting.
“Yes,” I say again. The word becomes a rhythm.
He undoes the button, pulls down the zipper, and eases the denim over my hips, taking my panties with them in one slow, deliberate movement. He sits back for a moment, looking at me, really looking, and I can see the hunger in his eyes, yes, but there’s something else too…love.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, because I need to hear it.
“That I’ve never wanted to take my time with anyone the way I want to with you,” he answers without hesitation. “And that if I don’t get my clothes off, I’m gonna embarrass myself in ways I have not done since high school.”
A helpless laugh bursts out of me, easing some tension. “Take your clothes off, Buchanan.”
He grins and obeys, his shirt pulls over his head, jeans and briefs pushed down and kicked aside. I watch him the whole time, taking in the long lines of muscle. He’s already hard, thick and heavy, resting against his abdomen for a second before he kneels between my thighs and reaches for me again.
“You are staring,” he says, amused and a little shy.
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’d be foolish not to.”
He shakes his head, but his mouth curves. Then he puts his hands on my knees and gently spreads my legs wider, dragging his thumbs along the inside of my thighs on the way. My breath stutters. The angle gives him a full view of how ready I am for him, and his eyes darken further, pupils blown.
“Beautiful,” he says again, a little rougher this time.
His fingers slide up, knuckles skimming my slick and aching pussy. I gasp, hips jerking making him hum in satisfaction and does it again, more deliberate this time, fingertip circling my clit before he dips lower.
He slides one thick finger inside me, and I clench around him, moaning, my head tipping back. He watches my face the whole time, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he moves.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He doesn’t, he builds a rhythm, adding a second finger when my body opens for him, his thumb working steady circles on my clit making heat settles tight in my belly, the pressure building fast.
“Trace.” I’m not sure if I’m warning or begging.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
The words tip me over—the trust in them does. I come hard, a sharp, pulsing release that has me crying out, hands clutching at his shoulders as everything around me blurs for a second. He keeps going through it, easing me down gently, thumbsoftening, fingers slowing but not leaving until I stop shaking, then withdrawing them and sucking them in his mouth.
When he finally pulls away, I’m boneless. He leans over me and kisses me, sharing the taste of my own cum, and something inside me sparks all over again.
He settles between my thighs once more, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding under my lower back to tilt my hips.
“Trace,” I say, wrapping my legs around his waist. “If you don’t get inside me in the next ten seconds, I’m going to find a way to fire you from a job you don’t even technically work for me in.”
