I sigh, relieved. “Good.”
Bastion slides into the nest beside me, careful, like I’m made of glass. Maybe I am. I don’t feel real anymore this deep into my heat. He cups my face in his hand and kisses me, soft at first, then harder, like he’s been waiting for permission. The taste of him is different than Wyatt. Less sharp and more smoke, a slow burn that creeps under your skin and takes its time.
I kiss him back—hungry and desperate. My hands claw at his shirt, then at his hair.
Bastion breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine. “If you want me to stop, just tell me.”
I laugh, giddy. “Not possible.”
He grins, then slides his hand down over my collarbone, tracing the edge of the tank top. He watches my face as he slips his hand under the fabric, palming my breast with a gentle squeeze. I gasp, the sound loud in the small room.
“Still good?” he asks as he kisses my ear.
I nod, and then he’s kissing my neck, working his way down. He pulls the tank top off, slow and deliberate, and I shiver in the cool air. My nipples are hard, aching, and he pinches one, then the other, rolling them between his fingers. The sensation is so sharp it makes my toes curl.
I grab his wrist and drag his hand lower, under the elastic of my shorts. I’m wet already—soaked, really—and the heat flaresup as soon as his fingers brush me. He strokes my clit, gentle at first, then harder as I grind against his hand.
“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
He doesn’t.
Bastion moves his hand without hesitation, trailing down my body with a silent confidence that makes me ache. He slips one finger inside me, then two, each thrust smooth and sure, syncing perfectly with the pressure of his thumb circling my clit. I feel the sudden, merciless rush of sensation, building so quickly I don’t have time to brace myself. I arch my back hard enough to throw my head into the pillow, teeth sinking into the heel of my own hand to avoid screaming the whole house awake.
Bastion doesn’t look away, not even for a second. His eyes are locked on mine, blue and burning, drinking in every flicker of pain and pleasure that crosses my face. The heat of his gaze makes me dizzy, like I’m splayed open for him in every possible way. He drops his head, groaning low, so close that I feel it in my chest.
“You have no fucking idea how good you look right now.” The dark and hungry sound of his voice makes the air in the room vibrate.
I want to tell him to shut up. I want to tell him to keep going. I don’t know what I want, except more—more of the way his fingers move inside me, more of the way he never looks away, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks. I dig my nails into his shoulder, anchoring myself so I don’t actually float off the earth, and I count the seconds until the world splinters.
Bastion keeps working me, relentless and careful, the rhythm so precise it’s almost mathematical—if math could be sweaty and desperate and addicting. My hips rock up, chasing every little bit of friction, and every time I buck, he matches my pace, never wavering, just adapting. Even with his arm in a sling, he’s sostrong, so steady, like he can hold me together by force of will alone.
I can’t hold back anymore. The surge comes all at once, overwhelming and bright. I let out a noise that’s half-sob, half-laugh. My vision whites out, a blank flash behind my eyelids, and for a long, senseless moment I’m not sure if I’m ever going to come down.
When I do, I’m shaking and boneless, but Bastion doesn’t move. He holds me together, his good hand cradling the back of my neck. He presses his body right up to the edge of mine. He traces circles on my hip with his thumb, grounding me while the aftershocks run wild through my limbs. I feel every heartbeat in my wrists, my teeth, my toes. I could cry.
“Breathe,” Bastion says quietly. “You’re okay.”
I want to say something smart in return, but all I can do is whimper. My hand is still clamped down on his shoulder, and when I finally get control of my muscles, I tug him down until he’s sprawled over me, heavy and warm. I bury my face in his throat, breathing in the mix of pine and sweat and Bastion.
He doesn’t ask if I liked it. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He already knows, and I love that about him, the way he reads me like a map he’s been studying in secret. He shifts, careful not to jostle my oversensitive skin, and lays his head beside mine, close enough that our tangled hair blends together on the pillow.
The world slowly comes back into focus. The mess of paint on my legs, the rumpled sheets, the fine tremor in my hands. I feel cracked open and rearranged.
I feel like myself for the first time in hours.
Bastion’s fingers never leave me, even when I shudder at the touch. He strokes slow and gentle, coasting me down until I’m limp and a little giddy. There’s a tension in his jaw, though—something unfinished lingering behind his eyes.
Bastion brushes my cheek with the back of his hand, then leans in and kisses me, slow and searching, like a question. I answer it with my mouth, hungry and grateful, pulling him closer until I can feel the thunder of his heart through his ribs. He tastes like coffee and sweat and something bitter underneath.
I reach for him, dragging him down to kiss me again. He smiles against my mouth, then slides lower, kissing a line down my stomach. I feel his breath on my thighs before I feel his tongue, and when he licks me, slow and careful, I nearly black out.
Bastion isn’t anything like Wyatt, not in the way he kisses, not in the way he touches, and certainly not in the way he goes down on me. Wyatt is playful, devil-may-care, always talking, always pushing for the laugh, the gasp, the “fuck, that’s good, don’t stop.” But Bastion—Bastion is all discipline and gravity, every movement measured and serious, like he’s solving an equation he doesn’t dare get wrong.
He kneels, one-armed and invulnerable, between my thighs, eyes up at me and unwavering, like he’s trying to memorize every tremble that passes across my face. There’s nothing hurried about it, nothing showy or rushed, just the relentless, focused pressure of his tongue against my clit, a rhythm so precise and unyielding I almost hate him for it. Bastion holds me open, tongue circling and lapping and pressing, the world narrowing to the wet sound of him and my own muffled gasps.
I have to look away, but it’s useless. My body betrays me. It arches up into Bastion’s mouth. I tangle my hands in the short, bristly hair at the back of his head. He hums, low and approving. The vibration shivers through me and sets off a chain reaction deep inside. I cum so fast and hard it feels like a muscle tear, like my body splitting from sternum to groin, and Bastion just keepsgoing, drawing it out, refusing to stop even as I beg him, legs kicking uselessly against his shoulders.
