This is something else.
Her breath catches.
I don’t give either of us a chance to overthink it. Sliding my fingers into the silk of her hair at the base of her skull, I tip her face up and crush my mouth to hers.
She comes up on her toes, hands fisting in my shirt, kissing me back like she’s been doing it her entire life. I walk her backward through the narrow living room, around the coffee table, past her sad little twig tree in the corner, until the back of her knees hit the side of her bed.
We break apart long enough for me to drag my shirt over my head and let it fall wherever. Then I bend and make quick work of getting Tally beautifully, gloriously naked for me. She helps, shoving leggings and underwear down, wiggling out of them, tossing her shirt toward the hamper and missing by a mile.
She starts to scoot farther back on the bed, instinctively trying to create space. I’m not having that.
I grip her hips and haul her down to the edge, then drop to my knees in front of her.
“Wh…what are you…oh my sweet baby jeezus—”
Her question dissolves into a broken moan the second I fasten my lips around her clit and suck.
Tally is my new favorite meal. My new religion. I intend to worship daily.
She tastes like heat and sugar and something uniquely hers. I lick and lap at her with slow, deliberate strokes, flattening my tongue, then circling, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips jerk.
It doesn’t take long. She’s wound tight from the drive, from the risk, from the day. From me.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, holding on, not guiding—trusting.
I slide one finger into her, groaning into her when her walls clamp down. I curl it up, searching until I find that rough little spot inside that makes her entire body jolt.
“There you are,” I murmur against her.
Her thighs tremble against my shoulders.
“Bran, please,” she whines, hips rocking, chasing the friction.
“Good girl,” I tell her, adding a second finger, stretching her, careful and reverent even as my cock throbs at the memory of how tight she was around me the first time. “Come on my tongue.”
She does. Hard.
I hold her through it, tongue and fingers working her until she’s shaking, little cries spilling out of her with each pulse of her orgasm. Only when she slumps back on her elbows, boneless, do I ease off.
When I stand, she’s staring up at me, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair a wreck, and somehow still manages to make a face at me.
“Not half bad,” she mutters.
“Yeah, whatever,” I say, even as smug satisfaction curls through me.
Without answering properly, I grab hold of her and haul her up into a seated position on the edge of the mattress. A second later, I pull her into my arms.
Her legs come around my waist like they belong there. I kiss her, deep and open-mouthed, wanting her to taste herself on my lips, to know exactly what she does to me.
She moans into my mouth, tongue tangling with mine, and my brain blanks.
The only word that forms ismine.
Tallulah Gentry is mine.
It’s a disconcerting, novel idea. I’ve never had such an immediate, visceral reaction before, never had the bone-deep certainty that I was meant to be with any specific person.
I test the thought from a few angles, the way I would a new gun: checking weight, balance, feel.
