I close my mouth over hers and let my heart answer what my hands already know.
We switch, as if we’ve rehearsed this for days: her mouth tracing the base of my throat, slipping under the waistband of my jeans, daring me to trust. She’s attentive, slow with me, patient, and when she takes me into her mouth, it’s like a balm. I watch her eyes as she works her tongue and lips all over my cock, the small smile that tightens the corner of her mouth.
She likes this; she likes that she can make me this open, this vulnerable. “You taste good,” she murmurs, and it breaks me because I find her the same.
We move together, sometimes clumsy, sometimes perfect. There’s such tenderness in every touch, an intimacy I never expected to find there. I cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in the soft hair, and when I close my eyes, the world narrows to the sound of her breath and the weight of her hands. She hums, this tiny sound that could stop wars.
“I need to be inside you,” I declare, pushing her off me.
I drop out of her mouth with a pop and readjust us. I pick her up off the bed, pinning her against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist.
“You’re perfect. I love everything about you,” I whisper as I thrust forward, burying myself in her in one swift move.
And I do. I express more praise towards her delectable body, the things I notice about her, how the light plays across the small patch of skin at her hip, how the stretch marks are like battle scars, and I salivate at them like trophies of surviving.
We take our time, slow march the end down to a crawl, fucking like we have all the time in the world when we know that we are living on stolen moments.
When we orgasm together, I take her with me back to the bed. We bask in the aftershock, catching our breath in the small hollows of each other. I fold my arm around her, and she tucks her head under my chin. Her hand finds my chest, fingers splayed flat, and I feel the rise and fall of her breathing. The sound she makes is like surrender and victory rolled into one. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but for tonight, she is mine and I am hers.
23
ELLA
The morning after Aria’s win feels like waking up in a world dipped in sunlight.
I’m still bustling with excitement, replaying her little gasp when they called her name, still hearing the crowd’s cheer, and feeling Cole’s arms around me after he tucked her in last night. I ride that high into the morning. Even the air smells sweeter today.
The ranch is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like the earth is still sleeping. I walk out of the main house with a coffee in hand, hair in a loose braid, wearing one of Cole’s hoodies I definitely did not “borrow.” I spot him outside his cabin, leaning against the porch railing like he’s been waiting for the sun to rise.
He sees me, and everything inside him softens. God. That look alone could ruin me.
I approach, already smiling. “Good morning.”
He pushes off the railing and steps toward me in that slow, measured way of his. “Morning, Shiloh.”
I melt a little at the nickname. “Sleep okay?”
He nods. “Better than okay.”
I know exactly why, and warmth blooms in my chest. My win from yesterday wasn’t just seeing Aria ride well. It was watching her father glow like he finally had something worth holding onto.
“And Aria?” I ask.
“Out cold. It was a long but good day.” He dips his head closer. “All thanks to you.”
Heat crawls up my throat. I shrug one shoulder, trying to play it off but failing miserably. “She did all the work.”
“And you made her believe she could,” he counters.
This man makes everything feel possible.
“You heading to the site soon?” I ask, trying to shift the conversation into less tension.
He nods. “I’d like to sleep in, but the crew is rolling in already, and I’ve got to lead by example. We’re starting on the framing today.”
Pride swells in me. “The houses are already looking incredible. I’m glad I fought for you to get this project.”
He smiles, that rare, barely-there curve of his mouth that feels like being chosen. “I’m glad you did too.”
