“No.” Her hands find my chest, fisting in my flannel shirt. “I want it on. Want to feel everything without seeing it.”
And that’s when I know she’s fully mine, even if she hasn’t said it yet. Because asking to keep the blindfold on means she trusts me completely and is comfortable being vulnerable with me.
“Okay,” I manage. “Blindfold stays on.”
I lift her off the chair like she weighs nothing, set her on the kitchen counter. She wraps her legs around my waist immediately, pulling me close, and I kiss her like I’m starving for it. My hands slide under her sweater, rough palms scraping against soft skin and the lace of her bra, and she arches into my touch. I want to devour her right here, spreadibg her out on this counter and making her scream my name loud enough the neighbors two miles away hear it.
“Hunter.” My name sounds wrecked coming from her mouth. “Please.”
I pull her blous off, toss it somewhere. The blindfold’s still secure, and she looks so damn beautiful sitting on my counter in the skirt that’s riding up her thighs and her hair falling out of its clip and her mouth swollen from my kisses.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her.
“I can’t see you.”
“I know. But I can see you, and you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in this kitchen.”
She laughs, breathless. “Your kitchen’s seen a lot?”
“Not like this.” I kiss down her throat, feeling her pulse hammer under my lips. “Never like this.”
I get her bra off, then her jeans, until she’s sitting on my counter in just her underwear and the blindfold. The late afternoon sun coming through the window paints her skin gold, and I take my time learning every inch of her with my hands and mouth. My scarred knuckles trace her ribs, her waist, the soft curve of her hip, and she shivers under the rough texture.
When I finally pull her underwear off, when I step between her thighs and touch her where she’s already wet and ready, she says my name like a prayer.
“Tell me what you want,” I say against her mouth.
“You. Just you.”
I work her with my fingers, watching her face, learning what makes her gasp and arch and dig her nails into my shoulders. When she comes apart the first time, she bites my shoulder to muffle her cry, and the small pain of it drives me higher.
“Bedroom,” I manage. “I need you in my bed.”
“Yes.”
I lift her off the counter, and she wraps herself around me, her face buried in my neck. I carry her down the hall to my bedroom, the floorboards creaking under our weight, and lay her on my bed—just a mattress and old quilts, nothing fancy, but it’s mine and now she’s in it.
The blindfold’s still on. She’s asked me to leave it on, so I do.
I strip fast, grab a condom from the nightstand, and settle between her thighs. When I push inside her, we both go still.
“Okay?” My voice barely works.
“More than okay.” Her hands find my face, trace my jaw, my mouth, like she’s memorizing me through touch. “Move. Please move.”
I do. Starting slow, I watch her face even though she can’t see mine. Every gasp is louder, every arch sharper. Without sight, she's pure sensation, and I'm the only thing anchoring her to the couch.
Outside, wind moves through the pines, and somewhere in the distance an owl calls. The wilderness pressing close to the stone walls, but in here it’s just us, just her soft body under mine and the sound of our breathing.
“Hunter.” She’s gasping now. “I need—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
I shift the angle, hitting deeper, and she cries out. Her nails rake down my back, and I grit my teeth against the urge to come right then. This needs to last. Need to make it good for her, need her to know this is different, this matters.
When she comes the second time, she says my name over and over, and I follow her, burying my face in her neck as I empty myself inside her.
We lie there catching our breath. I’m still inside her, still holding her, and she’s running her fingers through my hair like she can’t stop touching me.
