He rewards me with a shallow thrust, not nearly enough but better than nothing. “Be a good girl and wrap your legs around me.”
I comply without hesitation, opening myself completely to him. The position leaves me utterly vulnerable—a thought that sends another rush of heat through me.
This time when he enters me, it’s with one powerful thrust that seats him fully inside me. I cry out, the sudden fullness overwhelming in the best possible way. He gives me no time to adjust, setting a relentless pace that has me trembling beneath him, my entire body shaking with the force of his movements.
I’ve never felt so out of control, so completely at the mercy of sensation. Without sight, all I can do is feel—the stretch and friction of him moving inside me, the pressure of his hands holding my wrists, the occasional brush of his chest against mine when he leans down to capture a nipple in his mouth.
“You feel so good,” he groans, his pace faltering slightly, a tell that his own control is slipping further. “So tight, so perfect.”
His words push me higher, closer to a second peak I didn’t think was possible so soon after the first. But he slows again, letting me regain some measure of control before he starts up, relentless, pounding, then easing off, driving me mad with the whiplash of it all. I want to hate him for teasing me, for making me beg, but the truth is, I’m already addicted to the way he does it—like he can’t help himself, like holding back is the only way to keep himself from burning up completely. He groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest, and there’s nothing polite about the way he’s fucking me. It’s all sweat and urgency and animal instinct, like we’re trying to consume each other before the bed gives out or the houseburns down around us.
I’ve never heard Brooks like this. Every breath is a guttural growl, each word that escapes him is half-crazed, needy and fierce. The sheets are twisted in my fists, but his hands pin me in place, one at my wrists, the other digging into my hip like he’s desperate to anchor me, or maybe himself. I realize, distantly, that I’m screaming—my voice hoarse, raw, unfamiliar even to my own ears. The world is black behind the blindfold, but sparks and colors flash in my mind every time he thrusts into me, every time his body slams against mine. It’s like being struck by lightning again and again, but instead of pain, it’s euphoria—impossible to outrun, impossible to ignore.
He changes the angle, finds some spot inside me that makes my vision white out, and I arch so hard I swear the mattress might split. “Please,” I sob, but I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Maybe mercy. Maybe more. Maybe never to stop, ever.
Brooks lets go of my wrists, and for a second, I think he’s giving in, but then his hands are everywhere—on my face, brushing the hair from my forehead, cupping my jaw, then sliding down my throat, his thumb resting just at the hollow. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds me, gentle and rough at the same time, a reminder that I’m his, that I’m not going anywhere. It should terrify me, this level of abandon, but I feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“God, Syd,” he groans, voice ragged and shaking. “Tell me if it’s too much. I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Don’t you dare stop,” I gasp.
He pistons his hips with a new urgency, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest, slicking our bodies together. I can feel him losing all control, the way his movements get less precise, more frantic, and the knowledge that I can undo him like this is almost as good as the physical pleasure. Almost.
The second orgasm builds like a freight train, unstoppable. My body draws tight, every muscle locked and shaking. He feels it, the way I clamp around him, and he buries his face in my neck.
I’m trembling violently now, hovering on the edge of something monumental.
“You ready?” Brooks asks, voice strained.
I whimper, desperate for release but determined to obey. “I’m holding off—”
“We’ll see,” he insists, his thrusts becoming more erratic.
The effort of holding back intensifies everything—each stroke, each breath, each racing heartbeat becomes magnified to an almost unbearable degree. I’m wound so tight I might shatter at any moment.
When I can’t possibly hold on any longer, Brooks grunts, “Let go, baby.”
The permission is all I need. I come apart around him, my entire body convulsing with the force of my release. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, so intense it’s almost painful, like every nerve ending is firing simultaneously. I’m dimly aware of my own voice, raw from the primal sounds tearing from my throat.
Above me, Brooks goes rigid, his body taut as a bowstring. “Fuck,” he growls, the word stretched thin with pleasure as he pulses inside me, his release extending my own in a feedback loop of shared ecstasy.
Gradually, the intensity ebbs, leaving me limp and gasping beneath him. Brooks collapses partially to the side, careful not to crush me with his weight. Gentle fingers untie the blindfold, sliding it away from my eyes.
The room comes back into focus slowly—the soft lamplight, the rumpled sheets, Brooks’ face hovering above mine, his expression a mix of satisfaction and wonder. He brushes damp strands of hair from my forehead, his touch impossibly tender.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. What could I possibly say? ‘That was amazing’ feels woefully inadequate. ‘I think I’m falling for you’ is totally off-limits.
So I say nothing, letting my body communicate instead—curling into him, pressing a kiss to his chest, directly over his heart. His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, and I feel rather than hear his contented sigh.
I’m wrecked in the best possible way—physically satisfied beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, emotionally raw and exposed. The realization hits me with crystal clarity: I’m done for. Whatever was left of my defenses against Brooks Kingston has been thoroughly, irrevocably dismantled.
And the scariest part? I don’t even want them back.
22
Beavers on Ice
SYDNEY
