I stroke her breasts, tug her nipples, watch her fall apart. Her hips stutter. She gasps when my thumb circles her clit.
“Please, Wyatt…”
“That’s it,” I growl. “Let me feel you.”
Her rhythm falters, body trembling. Her climax hits fast. She cries out and curls forward, clenching so hard around me I see stars.
I grit my teeth, holding on. Barely.
“Wyatt,” she whispers shakily as she comes down, “I need you to move. Please, I need?—”
I kiss her. “I know. Come for me again first.”
“I don’t—Wyatt, I can’t?—”
“Oh, you can,” I murmur, sliding my middle finger through her slick folds and teasing her back entrance. “You will.”
Her breath shatters. “Oh! Oh, fuck. What?—”
“Good girl… breathe, Dove.”
I give her small pumps of my hips while my fingertip presses just enough to tip her over again. She shudders, nails biting into my shoulders.
When she breaks, soft and breathless, I hold her through every tremor.
She opens her eyes, dazed. “I’m supposed to be doing the work,” she whispers, then kisses me and starts to move again.
She sets a pace that’s rough, deep, and devastating. I look between us to where we’re joined, watching her pussy swallow me greedily, over and over… and I lose the battle.
“Come for me, Saint,” she demands. “Give me everything.”
That’s all it takes.
I erupt with a groan that’s half her name, half surrender.
Minutes later, when my body finally returns, she’s draped over me like a warm blanket, one hand stroking the back of my neck, the other resting over my scar.
She may not erase the old wounds, but she’s easing the deeper ones already.
“Wyatt?” she murmurs, voice dreamy.
“Hm?”
“You’re right.”
“About what?”
“You’re really good with your hands.”
I huff a laugh into her shoulder. “And my mouth?”
She blushes so hard I feel it against my throat. “Shut up.”
“Never.”
She flicks my ear. I nip her collarbone. She squeaks.
We end up laughing, tangled up in warmth and each other.
