I shift carefully, trying not to wake him. But the movement presses me against his hip, and I feel it—the unmistakableevidence that his body is awake even if his mind isn't. Hard. Ready. Straining against his jeans like it's been waiting for me.
A wicked idea takes root.
I ease out of his arms slowly. He stirs, murmurs something unintelligible, but doesn't wake. Good. I want to surprise him. Want to give him something he didn't ask for, the way he gave me things I didn't know I needed.
I work his belt open carefully. The button. The zipper. Each tiny sound seems deafening in the morning quiet, but he doesn't stir. Still deeply asleep, exhausted from the day before, from everything we did in the dark.
When I free him, he's already fully hard—thick and heavy in my hand, twitching at my touch. I wrap my fingers around him, stroke once, and watch his face.
His brow furrows. A soft sound escapes his throat. But his eyes stay closed.
I lower my head.
The first touch of my tongue makes him groan—low and rough, still more asleep than awake. I take my time. Taste him. Learn the shape of him with my mouth, the way I learned the rest of him with my hands. He's hot against my lips, velvet over steel, and when I take him deeper, his hips jerk involuntarily.
"Evie—" His voice is wrecked, confused. "What?—"
"Shh." I pull back just long enough to meet his eyes. He's awake now, staring down at me with an expression that's half disbelief, half desperate hunger. "Let me."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." I hold his gaze as I lower my mouth again. "I want to taste you. I want to make you feel good. I want—" I swirl my tongue around the tip, watch his eyes flutter. "I want to watch you fall apart."
His head tips back against the rock.
"Fuck."
I take that as permission.
The sounds he makes are different from last night—rougher, less controlled. He's not performing now, not trying to be anything for me. He's just feeling. His hand finds my hair, tangles in it, but he doesn't push. Doesn't try to control the pace. Just holds on like he needs something to anchor him.
"Evie." My name is a groan. "Sweetheart. I'm—you need to?—"
I don't stop. Don't slow down. I want this. Want to feel him come undone. Want to be the one who breaks him open.
The canyon fills with light around us. Pink and gold spilling over the ridge, painting the granite walls in colors I've seen a hundred times but never like this. Never with a man's pleasure vibrating against my tongue, never with the taste of him flooding my senses, never with this fierce, possessive joy burning in my chest.
His hand tightens in my hair. His hips buck. And then he's coming—hot and hard and endless, his whole body shuddering, my name torn from his throat like a prayer.
I take everything he gives me.
When it's over, he's boneless. Sprawled against the rock, chest heaving, staring at the sky like he's not entirely sure he's still alive.
"Good morning," I say.
He laughs—breathless, wrecked. "Jesus Christ, Evie."
"You're welcome."
"I think I saw God."
"Just me." I crawl up his body, settle against his chest. His heart is hammering beneath my cheek. "Though I'll accept 'goddess' as a substitute."
"Goddess." He wraps his arms around me, pulls me close. "Witch. Siren. Whatever the hell you are, I'm keeping you."
"That's a lot of commitment from a man who's known me less than a day."
"It's been a very eventful day." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Give me five minutes, and I'll return the favor."
