I’ve been imagining this for weeks. What he looks like underneath all that leather and control. How he’ll feel against my tongue. Whether I can make the president of the Stoneheart MC lose that iron composure.
I’m soaked, already aching for him once more. I move, and we both hear the soft slick of my thighs. His gaze darkens, his mouth twisting into a feral grin.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“You’ve been taking care of me,” I say, stopping between his spread knees. “Now it’s my turn.”
I sink to my knees between his thighs, and his breath catches.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” I hold his gaze as my good hand goes to his belt. “I’ve been thinking about this constantly. About what you’d look like. What you’d feel like. What sounds you’d make.”
“Josie...”
“Let me take care of you.” I work his belt open one-handed, then his zipper. “The way you’ve been taking care of me.”
He lifts his hips to help me free him, and then he’s there—hard and thick and already straining toward me. I wrap my good hand around him, feeling him pulse against my palm.
“God,” he breathes.
“You’re beautiful.” I stroke him slowly, learning his shape. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No.”
“They should have.” I lean forward and press a kiss to the tip—just a whisper of contact.
He groans like I’ve wounded him.
“Patience,” I murmur. “I’m not rushing this.”
I explore him slowly, tracing the veins with my tongue, learning what makes him gasp. When I finally take him into my mouth, his hand flies to my hair.
“Fuck—” The word is torn from him. “Your mouth—Josie?—”
I set a deliberate rhythm, taking him deeper with each stroke. His hips twitch beneath me, fighting the urge to thrust, his hand trembling where it’s gently tangled in my hair. Even this close to losing it, he’s still taking care of me, mindful of the still healing scars.
“Look at me,” I say, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want you to watch.”
His eyes meet mine—dark, desperate, burning with need—as I take him deep again. I hollow my cheeks, suck hard, and his head falls back with a moan.
“Josie—close—you should?—”
I don’t pull back. Instead, I take him deeper, swallowing around him, working him with everything I have. He comes with ashout, his release flooding my mouth. I take everything he gives me, gentling my touch as he comes down.
When I finally let him slip from my lips, he looks wrecked. Absolutely destroyed.
“Get up here.” His voice is hoarse. He hauls me into his lap, crushing his mouth to mine. “That was—you’re—Christ.”
I smile against his lips. “Good?”
“Good doesn’t begin to cover it.” He cups my face in his hands, his expression suddenly serious. “I love you.”
The words hit me like a physical force. Everything stops. My breath. My heart. The spinning of the earth on its axis. I search his face for the tell—the flicker of regret, the backpedal already forming. But there’s nothing. Just Boone, looking at me like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.
My throat tightens. No one has ever said those words to me. God they sound incredible.
“I know it’s fast,” he continues. “And you’ll probably think it’s just the dopamine talking.”
