I kiss him back like I’ve forgotten every reason I shouldn’t.
His hands are everywhere. Tugging at my hips, fisting in my hair, tracing the curve of my spine like he’s desperate. I gasp against his mouth, and he groans, deep and guttural, sliding one hand down to grab the back of my thigh and hitch it around his waist.
He presses me back against the door, grinding against me, hard and hot through his jeans. My fingers clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, not caring that it’s clumsy and frantic and messy. I just want more.
Clothes come off in a frantic blur. Shirts yanked over heads, jeans shoved down without ceremony. Somewhere in the chaos, he lifts me, carrying me across the room and dropping me onto the bed.
He follows me down, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my throat, my collarbone, my breasts. Every nerve ending in my body fires to life under his touch. I arch into him, greedy, wild with need.
When he finally thrusts inside me, it’s not slow or careful. It’s rough, raw, a desperate claiming. My head falls back againstthe pillows, a broken sound escaping me as he moves, deep and relentless, like he’s trying to carve himself into my very bones.
We don’t speak. There are no pretty words, no false promises. Just panting breaths, shuddering moans, the sharp slap of skin on skin as we chase the high that’s been simmering between us since his father showed up and ruined everything.
When my orgasm crashes through me, I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. He follows with a harsh groan, collapsing against me, his heart pounding in a frantic rhythm against mine.
For a long moment, we just lie there, tangled together, sweat-slicked and gasping for air.
But even as the aftershocks fade, a cold, creeping fear slides into my chest. Because this wasn’t love. This was something wild and reckless and broken. And I don't know if there’s any coming back from it.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when Liam moves.
One second he’s heavy against me, the next he’s pushing up onto his knees, grabbing my hips and flipping me over onto my stomach with a roughness that sends a fresh bolt of heat straight through me.
I gasp, half from shock, half from the sheer feral need radiating off him. His hands skim down my sides, gripping my hips so tight I know I’ll wear his fingerprints tomorrow, and I don’t care. I want them. I wantallof it.
He leans over me, his mouth brushing my ear, his voice rough as gravel. “Not finished with you.”
The blunt head of his cock slides along my slick folds, teasing me until I whimper and arch my back, offering myself to him without shame. He groans, low and savage, and then he thrusts into me in one hard, claiming stroke.
I cry out, gripping the sheets, the stretch and fullness overwhelming and addictive. He sets a brutal rhythm, driving into me with single-minded focus, each thrust deep and punishing, rocking the bed against the wall.
I can barely breathe, can barely think, pleasure shredding me from the inside out. He fists my hair, pulling my head back so he can mouth along my throat, teeth scraping in a way that makes my whole body tighten around him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, pounding into me harder, deeper, sending shockwaves through my core.
I shatter around him again, this time so violently my vision whites out, my entire body wracked with trembling spasms. He follows with a ragged shout, spilling inside me, his body collapsing over mine, his weight grounding me even as my world spins.
We stay like that, a tangle of sweat and need and something dangerously close to heartbreak, long after the last tremors fade. And still, neither of us says a word. Because words would break the fragile, burning thing we just set loose between us.
The days crawl by, thick with silence.
We don’t talk, not really. At breakfast, we play our parts. We’re polite, distant, strangers wearing familiar faces. We make small, hollow comments about the weather, the food, the cattle. We hold hands when we walk the property with Teddy and Bessie. It’s all for show. Empty words that mean nothing compared to the tension burning between us. But it seems to be working because Teddy and Bessie have no idea the real truth.
But when night falls?
Everything we’re trying to bury ignites.
The second the door closes, we crash into each other. Mouths frantic, hands tearing, needing.
Liam fucks me like he’s starving, like I’m the last thing he’ll ever taste. One night he slams me against the wall, hiking my leg around his waist, grinding into me with brutal, punishing thrusts that leave me gasping his name into his mouth. Another, he throws me onto the bed face-down, ripping a groan from my throat as he takes me from behind, his hands branding my hips, his growls vibrating through my spine.
In the shower, he presses me flat to the slick tile wall, water pouring over us as he drives into me so hard the glass door rattles.
In the middle of the night, he drags me out of sleep, flipping me onto my back and pushing into me before I’m even fully awake, his kisses rough and devouring, his hands everywhere at once, like he can’t touch enough of me fast enough.
There are no sweet words.
No tender declarations.
