His eyes close briefly, like he’s praying to something. When he opens them again, they’re softer. Wrecked.
“I don't think I'll be able to stop myself If we keep going,” he says.
The floor seems to tilt beneath us.
“Okay,” I breathe.
That’s all it takes.
His mouth is on mine in the next heartbeat.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s too much and not enough all at once. His lips crash against mine, hot and desperate, andI meet him halfway, fingers fisting in his shirt even though my hands are still bound together but I need to grab onto something.
The kiss tastes like salt and smoke and all the years between us.
He groans into my mouth when I open for him. His tongue slides against mine, and my whole body lights up like someone plugged me into a socket. Every place we’re touching—the press of his chest, the grip of his hands at my waist, the heat of his thighs under mine—sparks.
I shift without thinking, trying to get closer. The movement drags my core over the firm muscle of his thigh, and I swallow a broken sound.
He feels it. Of course he does.
“Meredith,” he breathes against my lips, hands tightening. “Christ.”
His fingers slide from my waist to my hips, guiding, and I realize what he’s doing a second before he does it.
He rocks me.
It’s small at first. A slow pull of my hips against his thigh. Fire shoots through me, low and sharp. My nails dig into his shirt. I drag in a breath and most of it is a whimper.
“Don't tell me to stop,” he says, voice strained, like he's scared this isn't real. Like he's afraid I'll wake up from whatever trance this is and push him away.
I clench my tied hands between us, chest heaving. My forehead drops to his, our noses brushing. “I won't,” I whisper.
His exhale is ragged, blowing hot across my lips. “Good.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, swallowing the next sound I make as he guides me into another slow roll of my hips. Heat builds quickly, a tight coil that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how long it’s been since anyone touched me like this.
I move with him, a little helpless, the friction of denim against the ache between my legs making my head go fuzzy. My thighs clamp around him. He’s hard under me, trapped against my abdomen, and some dark, traitorous part of me thrills at the proof.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against my mouth when I circle my hips just right. Praise wraps around me, hot and humiliating and addictive. “Always so smart. Always knew what you needed.”
“You’re—” I gasp when his hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just under the swell of my breasts through the fabric. “You’re insane.”
He huffs a strained laugh. “Probably.” His lips trail along my jaw, down my throat. “Still doesn’t make you any less perfect.”
I tilt my head back, giving him more, hating how easy it is. How familiar even though we’ve never done this. His mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear and sucks lightly. My toes curl inside my boots.
The cabin narrows to the couch. The couch narrows to his hands and mouth and the thick muscle of his thigh pressing exactly where I need it most. I cling to him, breathing hard, letting the rhythm drag me closer to a cliff I’m not sure I’m ready to go over.
He feels that too.
At the exact moment everything starts to white out around the edges, his hands leave my hips.
I make a sound that’s half protest, half relief. “Nick—”
He cups my face, forcing my gaze to his. His pupils are blown wide, his voice a low scrape. “I want to see you come like this,” he growls. “All tied up like a Christmas present on my lap.”
My pulse slams against my ribs. The words shouldn’t go straight between my legs, but they do.
