The cab is small. She shifts to make room and ends up against my side, and neither of us moves away. Outside, the light has faded to the long pewter dusk of an Alaskan summerevening. Sabaak shifts, sighs. The island is quiet except for the wind.
“So, what do we do about Monteith?” she asks.
“Tomorrow, I’ll radio the public safety officer. Report the knife and the tire damage. Without evidence connecting him directly, there isn’t much he can do—but it creates a record.” I pause. “And I have my own way of dealing with Monteith that doesn’t involve waiting on anyone else.”
She turns her head to look at me. Close. “What does that mean?”
“It means he wants the land. There are other ways to keep him from getting it.” I leave it there. She doesn’t push—she reads me well enough by now to know when I’m not ready to say more.
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable. She tips her head against my shoulder, and. I don’t move.
“I’m not scared of him,” she says quietly. “I want that on record.”
“I know.”
“I’m annoyed. That’s different.”
The corner of my mouth moves. “I know that too.”
Someone moves, maybe we both do, but the next thing I know, we’re kissing. Long hungry kisses that fill the car with our moans. I groan and she whimpers. My arms circle her waist, and I pull her across my lap, and she comes willingly, hands already finding the hem of my jacket. The cab fills with our breath, our heat, the soft sounds she makes that I’ve already memorized against my will.
“Wyatt.” Her mouth is at my jaw. “We’re in a truck.”
“I know where we are.”
She laughs—that short, breathless laugh—and then her hands are on my shirt, and I stop thinking about where we are entirely.
I get her out of her jacket, and she pulls mine off my shoulders, and we move with the ease of people who’ve been learning each other for days. I drag her shirt over her head, and she arches into my hands when I unclasp her bra and palm her bare breasts, her nipples stiffening against my thumbs. I roll them slowly, and she whimpers, rocking against my lap, her hips finding the ridge of my cock through my jeans.
Mine.
A thought, sudden and dangerous roars into my head as I kiss Sylvie’s sweet mouth. A possessive need fuels me. Our breath mingles hotly between us as we run our hands over every inch of skin we can touch.
“God,” she breathes. “Wyatt—”
I drop my mouth to her breast and suckle hard at her nipple, and she gasps, fingers digging into my hair to hold me there. I drag my tongue over the peaked bud and move to the other, working her until she’s grinding against me with real need, her breath coming in sharp little pulls.
Getting her jeans down in a truck cab is graceless. She laughs when her elbow catches the horn—one short bleat into the Alaskan dark—and I laugh against her throat, and then I get my hand between her thighs, and she stops laughing entirely.
“Oh—” The sound she makes when I slide my fingers through her wet folds is the best thing I’ve heard all week. I stroke her slowly, watching her face in the low light—flushed, lips parted, eyes half-shut and fixed on mine—as I work her open. She’s slick and swollen, and when I press my thumb to herclit she clenches hard around my fingers and moans my name into the dark cab.
I take my time. She writhes on my lap and begs with her hips, and I keep the pace deliberate, drawing her up slow until she’s shaking.
“Please,” she breathes. “Wyatt. Please.”
I give her what she’s begging for—pressure, speed, the curl of my fingers at the spot that makes her gasp—and she shatters, crying out and gripping my shoulders as the orgasm rolls through her, her sex clenching and pulsing around my hand. I work her through every shudder until she collapses against my chest, panting.
Then I get my jeans open and lift her hips. She reaches down to take hold of me, guiding me to her entrance, and when she sinks down, I press my forehead hard to her shoulder and breathe through the tight, wet heat of her closing around me.
“Fuuuck,” I growl, shoving my mouth against her ear.
“Yes,” she whispers, and starts to move.
She rides me in the dark cab with her hands on my shoulders and my hands on her hips, guiding her pace, and I watch her face the entire time—the way her brow furrows, the way her lips part around every breath, the way she tips her head back when the angle finds something that makes her gasp. The windows fog. Outside, the sky deepens to the bruised blue of an Alaskan midnight, and the wind moves through the grass, and the island is very quiet and very dark. I have my hands full of this woman and her warmth and her voice and the way she says my name when she’s close—ragged and desperate and mine—and I stop trying to pretend that word doesn’t mean what it means.
I reach between us and press my thumb to her clit, and her rhythm falters.
“Don’t stop,” I say against her throat.
