He laughs, a low, broken sound. “You did good. I thought you’d try to fight.”
“Didn’t want to,” I admit. “You… you do things to me.”
He tilts my chin up, makes me look at him. His eyes are softer now, the hard edge gone. “You don’t ever have to fight me, Landon.”
I believe him.
I close my eyes, let the world fade out, and breathe in the scent of him—salt, sweat, something sharp and clean that’s only his.
I drift, Briar’s arms around me, the mountain morning bright and silent outside.
And when I finally sleep again, I dream not of running, but of being caught.
The world is glassy and white when I wake again, but I don’t know how much time has passed. I’m sprawled naked on top of the comforter. There’s a sense of loss… not waking up on top of him.
Briar is already awake, and he’s staring at me.
He sits at the edge of the bed, legs parted, cock already thick and heavy between his thighs. He’s half in shadow, the sun slicing across his jaw and catching the blue of his eyes. He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize everything about me. There’s something raw in the way he drinks me in—like hunger, or need, or maybe just the thrill of knowing he’s the only person alive who gets to see me like this.
His fingers trace the marks he left on my hips, the mottled red where his hands dug in. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is pride.
He notices.
“Pretty.”
I want to answer, but my mouth is dry. Instead, I prop myself on one elbow and let my gaze slide over him, from the mess of his hair to his strong jawline. He must see the heat in my eyes, because his lips quirk, and then he’s crawling up the bed, every move deliberate.
He pins me with a look, then leans in and kisses me, soft at first, just pressure and warmth. Then his teeth drag my lower lip, and I gasp, which gives him all the invitation he needs. He slips his tongue past my lips, tastes the inside of my mouth, then pulls away, trailing open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat, the hollow where my shoulder meets my collarbone.
He’s a different animal. No violence, no edge—just patience. He’s careful with his teeth, careful with his hands. He presses me into the mattress, chest to chest, cock to cock, and lets his weight tell me I’m not going anywhere.
He sucks a mark onto my neck, then slides down, tongue flicking over my nipple, his hand stroking lazy circles on my ribs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but feel.
He keeps going, mouth and hands mapping the whole of me—my chest, my stomach, the curve of my waist. When he hits the waistband of nothing, he pauses, looks up, and grins. He bites the jut of my hip, not gentle, and I flinch.
“Sensitive, pet?” he says, the word loaded.
“Fuck you,” I manage.
He laughs, low, and takes my cock in his hand. I expect him to go for it, but instead he just strokes, feather light, watchingmy face for every twitch. He likes to see what I’ll do if he keeps me waiting.
I arch into the touch, desperate, but he just pins my hips to the bed and keeps me there, his hand a vice.
He kneels between my thighs, the light catching the planes of his chest, the scars on his arms. He’s gorgeous, but he acts like he has no idea. Like he doesn’t know what it does to me to see him, all muscle and control, looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s almost solved.
His hands are never still. One slides up my thigh, the other cups my balls, rolling them slow in his palm. Then a finger slides lower, behind, finding the place that I want him to be in.
He meets my eyes.
“Okay?”
It’s the first time he’s asked.
I nod, and he rewards me by circling his thumb around the rim, not pushing in, just teasing.
I can’t help the sound I make—half moan, half plea. He grins, pleased with himself.
