But I trusted Rios.
He lavished so much delicious, focused attention on my breasts—alternating between them, sucking and licking and nipping until I was writhing beneath him—that I hardly noticed he’d worked his hands between us to unfasten my jeans until that big, broad palm slid beneath the fabric of my underwear, his fingers cupping the growing heat. My head fell back on a moan that was probably too loud, too revealing, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. It was too much sensation and not enough, all at once. I widened my legs as much as the denim would allow, arching into the touch, inviting more. Begging without words.
And, oh, he gave it, dragging one blunt finger through my folds, gathering the wetness he found there before circling my clit with it and then doing it all over again, over and over, building a rhythm that had my hips rocking to meet him, chasing the pleasure he was doling out in carefully measured increments.
I gasped his name, equal parts plea and demand, past the point of pride or pretense.
“Need more, pretty girl?” The endearment, combined with the rough edge to his voice, sent another wave of heat through me.
“Yes.” At my hissed admission, he finally slipped a finger inside me, and the stretch and fullness made my inner walls clench greedily around him.
My body clenched, desperate for more as he began to thrust, in and out, his thumb finding my clit and circling in time with the movement. One finger became two, and the fullness was almost enough. Almost. But not quite.
“Let go for me, Madden. I’ve got you.” The words were both permission and command, his breath hot against my ear.
On a cry that might have been his name or might have been something more incoherent, I broke apart, trusting that he’d keep his word and wouldn’t let me fall as pleasure crashed over me in waves that seemed to go on and on.
He eased me down slowly, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rippled through me, then stretched out beside me like some giant, contented cat, that sensual mouth twisted into an unmistakable look of male satisfaction that should have annoyed me but somehow didn’t.
“Better?” His voice carried a thread of smugness that definitely would have annoyed me under other circumstances.
I lolled my head toward him, my limbs heavy and loose in a way they hadn’t been in longer than I could remember. “It’s a start.”
Those eyes gleamed with humor and renewed heat. “Only a start?”
Digging deep, I mustered sufficient muscle control to roll toward him, hooking a finger in the waistband of his jeans where they rode low on his hips. “This was not a one-sided proposition.”
“It can be. I’m not expecting—” He started to protest, ever the gentleman, but I wasn’t having it.
I pressed my lips to his in a deliberate bid to shut him up, to end this ridiculous notion that I was some fragile thing that needed to be handled with kid gloves. When I pulled back, I held his gaze. “I appreciate this noble streak of yours. That you want to be absolutely sure that I’m sure, that I’m not making a decision I’ll regret tomorrow. I am sure.” I brushed my mouth over his once more, softer this time. “I want you in my bed, Rios. I want you in me.”
He stared at me, searching my face with an intensity that felt like being read at the cellular level, looking for long enough that my heart began to sink and brace for rejection, for him to decide I was too broken, too complicated, too much trouble. But apparently he finally saw whatever he’d needed to see, some confirmation that this was real and wanted, because he pulled me closer again, his kiss deeper this time.
Neither of us spoke after that as we slipped into the wordless, timeless dance of stripping away the last barriers between us—jeans and underwear discarded in a tangle of fabric and fumbling fingers. We explored each newly exposed inch of skin with hands and mouths, learning the geography of each other’s bodies, the places that made breath hitch and muscles tense. He left me only long enough to dig a condom from his wallet—a moment of practicality that somehow made this more real, more intentional—and sheathe himself with hands that weren’t entirely steady.
And as the moon rose high above the ocean beyond the window, painting the room in silver light, he positioned himself between my thighs and slipped into me in one long, smooth stroke that had us both gasping. We followed the pull of our own tide, building and cresting and building again, chasing it with increasing urgency until we finally broke together, pleasure crashing over us like waves against the shore.
Thirty-Three
RIOS
Hunger drove us out of our room somewhere close to midnight. The upstairs bedroom door clicked softly behind us. The sound shouldn’t have mattered. It did anyway. Everything felt like that lately—small noises turning into meaning, ordinary things carrying weight.
We froze in the hall, listening for Sawyer and Willa, for the dogs. Madden’s pulse gave an erratic jump beneath my thumb as I brushed it over her wrist. We were grown-ass adults who had every right to leave anytime we chose, but it still felt a little like we were sneaking out, and I’d have bet my last dollar that wasn’t something she’d ever done growing up. The idea of her doing it now made me grin in the dark.
On bare feet, we made our way downstairs to the kitchen. In the dim light over the stove, I took in Madden’s tumble of dark brown curls and the way she wore my shirt like it belonged to her. The tight, braced tension she’d been holding onto since the video had eased, as if she’d finally found a place inside herself to set some of it down for a minute.
I told myself not to read into that.
I failed immediately.
“How hungry are you?” Hunger was a safe topic. It had rules and solutions.
Madden’s mouth twitched. “Starving.”
“We can raid the fridge. Guaranteed they’ve got something.”
She made a face. “I know. It just feels weird. Like rummaging through someone else’s drawers.”
