I work his belt open. Pop the button on his jeans. He helps me shove them down. He’s bare and hard as I wrap my fingers around him.
His whole body shudders. “Fuck.”
“Good?”
“Too good.” His voice is strained. “I’m not going to last if you?—”
I stroke him, learning the shape of him, the weight. The rhythm that makes his breath catch. The twist at the top that drags a groan from his chest. He’s thick and hot in my hand, leaking at the tip, and I use the slickness to ease my movements. His hips jerk forward, chasing my grip, and his loss of control makes me feel powerful.
I want more.
I slide off the cot, kneel in front of him, and take him in my mouth.
“Jesus—” His hand flies to my hair. “Laney, you don’t?—”
I take him deeper. He tastes like salt and skin. I’m clumsy and unpracticed, but I’m enthusiastic, and from the sounds he’s making, that counts.
“So good.” His grip tightens in my hair. “Your mouth is—fuck?—”
I find a rhythm. Tongue swirling, hand working what I can’t reach with my mouth. He’s trembling now, his thighs shaking, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
“I’m close.” The words sound torn out of him. “You need to?—”
I don’t pull back. I want this. Want to feel him come apart because of me.
He comes with a groan that sounds like it hurts, spilling across my tongue. I watch his face—jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, the raw vulnerability of his pleasure—and my chest cracks open.
This is terrifying.
This is everything.
I work him through it, gentling my movements as he shudders and gasps and finally relaxes.
Silence.
His hand is still in my hair, but his grip has loosened. I look up and find him staring at me with an expression I can’t read.
Then he’s pulling me up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me—but he doesn’t. He reaches past me, grabs the scratchy blanket, and wraps it around my shoulders. His hands linger, tucking it close, but he won’t meet my eyes.
“You’re cold,” he says. His voice is flat. Careful.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
I am. But not from the cold.
He moves away. Finds his jeans, and pulls them on with sharp, efficient movements. Checks the woodstove, adds another log. His back is to me, his shoulders tight, and I don’t understand what’s happening.
Five minutes ago, he was inside my mouth. Now, he’s acting like I’m a supply delivery he needs to sign for.
“Daniel.”
“We should head back.” He still won’t look at me. “Storm’s passed. They’ll be wondering where we are.”
The warmth of my orgasm is fading fast, replaced by something cold and familiar. Thewaiting-for-the-other-shoefeeling. Theof course this is how it goesfeeling.
I wanted something for myself. And now I”m paying for it.
