I reach up, my hands tangling in the wet fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. I need him to press into me. I need to eliminate every inch of space between us.
He groans low in his throat, a vibration that travels straight through my chest and down to my core. I can feel him—hard, thick, and demanding—against my hip. The evidence of his desire sends a shockwave of pleasure through me that makes my toes curl in my boots.
One of his hands leaves my hip, moving to the front of my coat. He undoes the buttons with rough, impatient fingers. Then his hand drops lower, fumbling with the heavy brass buckle of my belt.
The metal clinks, a loud sound in the quiet of the shelter.
“Boone,” I breathe against his mouth, but he doesn’t stop.
He gets the belt open. The button of my jeans pops free. The zipper hisses down. His hand slides inside, bypassing the layers of soaked cotton and finding the heat of my skin.
I cry out, my head falling back against the rough bark of the oak.
His fingers are callused, rough, and absolutely perfect. He strokes me through the damp silk of my panties, exploring, testing. I buck my hips, seeking more friction, needing more pressure.
He pulls his hand back. I whimper at the loss, but then I watch, transfixed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth. He tastes me. His eyes roll back slightly, and a look of pure, unadulterated lust transforms his face.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper. The sight is erotic. Vile. Perfect.
“I’ve thought about this,” he says, his tone ragged. “About kissing you. About tasting you.” He steps closer, his leg wedging between my thighs, pinning me open. “I regret not kissing you that day in the rain. I regret letting you drive away.”
He reaches up and pulls the cowboy hat from his head, tossing it into the mud. His hair is wet, dark curls plastering to his forehead. I reach up, my fingers tracing the hairline at his temple, then moving down to trace the hard line of his jaw. He turns his head, kissing my palm, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
His hand returns to my jeans. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs. He pushes the heavy denim down my hips, along with my panties. The cold air hits my wet skin, making me shiver, but his hand is there a second later, covering me, warming me.
“You’re so wet,” he growls.
“It’s the rain,” I manage to say, my voice hitching as his thumb finds that sensitive bundle of nerves.
“No,” he says. He drops to his knees in the mud. He doesn’t care. He lifts one of my legs, draping it over his shoulder, opening me completely to his gaze. “It’s not the rain. It’s you.”
He buries his nose against the apex of my thighs, inhaling deeply. “You smell delectable, Saramaria. Like honey and cream and pure need.”
“Boone...”
“Look at me,” he commands.
I look down. Our eyes lock. Then he leans in and puts his mouth on me.
I see stars.
His tongue is hot and wet and wicked. He licks a stripe from my entrance to my clit, circling the sensitive nub with teasingprecision. My hands fly to his hair, holding on for dear life as my legs begin to tremble.
He pushes two fingers inside me. I gasp at the intrusion, the stretch. He scissors them, stretching me, preparing me. He curls his fingers, finding a spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“Oh god,” I cry out.
He doesn’t let up. He sucks my clit into his mouth, biting down gently, then soothing the sting with his tongue. He pumps his fingers in and out, a ruthless, perfect rhythm.
The pressure builds low in my belly, a tight coil of heat. I try to hold back, try to maintain some semblance of control, but it’s useless. He’s too good. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Boone, I’m going to...”
“Let go,” he murmurs against my skin.
He sucks hard on my clit again, and I snap.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and overwhelming. I arch my back, a cry tearing from my throat. My inner muscles clench around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me. I shudder, my entire body shaking, as he works me through it, drawing out every last drop of sensation.
