Breathlessly, our mouths meet, hungry, until we’re forced to resurface. The glitter in her eyes as she reaches up to snag thecondom is magic. I take it, ripping it open and sliding it down my length.
“You alright?” I murmur, kissing between her breasts. She arches when my tongue runs over her hard nipple.
“More than alright,” she pants.
I slide my fingers down her stomach to her pussy, groaning softly as they meet wetness. Then, gripping myself by the base, I ease inside, and heat bursts through every nerve, down my fingertips, the soles of my feet.
I’m going to come.
My body tenses, and I take a breath. The tingling heat in my groin subsides a bit, but I know I’m not about to give her the longest ride of her life. It’s not even about how numb I’ve been, or how long it’s been since I’ve had sex, that has me on the edge. As I look down at her beneath me, gold hair splayed out over the pillow, it’s about her, about how badly I’ve wanted to touch her since we first laid eyes on each other. She’s just so damn pretty.
“I ain’t gonna last,” I admit.
Her smile flashes white teeth. “It’s okay.”
Slowly, I pull out, and, God, she feels exquisite. We collapse into each other, my arm sliding beneath her upper back to pull her close. We’re kissing, stars popping in the dark—the dark that doesn’t bother me much at all—and not much matters anymore but her. I’m lost, reveling in the way she moans and rolls her spine as I fuck deep. I love how expressive she is. It’s making it easy on me.
“God,” she gasps, eyes widening.
“What’s wrong?” I breathe.
“Nothing,” she moans, nails dragging down my back. “Do that. Don’t change it.”
Keeping my knee braced on the bed, I force myself to thrust at the same, even pace. Her nails keep going, scraping along my ribs. The pain feels so damn good, it’s sending me closer andcloser to the precipice. I can’t finish, not while she’s clenching and whimpering on my dick like this. I want to feel her come when I’m inside.
“Come on, baby,” I breathe. “Come for me.”
She shudders, gripping me hard, like she’s trying to hold me still. I slow my thrusts, pushing deep and rocking. That’s what she needs—her head falls back, she gives a soundless cry, and comes hard.
I’m tumbling after her, collapsing over her body. My face is in her neck, she’s biting at my shoulder. We’re both shuddering, lost in the aftershocks.
I’m gonna marry her someday.
My brain goes real quiet in a way it hasn’t since the accident. This is something brand new for me.
Gently, I pull out and roll onto my side, arm around her waist. She’s in a daze, lids halfway lowered. God, she’s beautiful. I touch between her breasts, running my fingertip up to her throat. Gently, I lay my hand over it, closing my fingers loosely. Beneath my palm, I feel her heart thud then grow slow as she comes down from her high.
“I like it when you hold me like that,” she whispers.
My dick twitches. “You like it a little rough?”
She shrugs. “Now and then. But I like how gently you touch me. It’s different…nice.”
Her throat vibrates lightly when she speaks. I have the faint impression of her beneath me, my hand around her throat while she begs for me to go harder, faster. My dick is halfway hard again. God, I could go a few more rounds before she tires me out, and that’s saying something. I’ve been so tired for so long.
She rolls to her side, noses almost touching. Her mouth brushes mine, and I kiss her.
We break apart.
“I love how gentle you are,” she whispers.
For a half second, I wonder if that’s one of those compliments that has a hint of critique in it. Aiden always made sure I knew he didn’t approve of me being the quieter son. When he told me I wasn’t biologically his, even though he made it clear that he was still my father and expected my respect, he said it was obvious to everybody I didn’t come from Hatfield stock. Too quiet, not a fighter the way Wayland and Ryland were, not willing to get riled up at the bar over nothing and end up with bloody knuckles in an overnight cell.
Her eyes are soft. Glowing.
I think she means gentle in the best way possible. My mind drifts back to the little wooden birds I’ve been carving, quiet birds. Sparrows, wrens, warblers. The birds of the meadow and the field grass, existing under the pale summertime sun until their time is up. I consider telling her about the gentle birds, but they’ll come up in their own time. For now, I’m savoring the newness of everything.
“Are you sleepy?” she whispers.
