"That," he says, low and rough. "Again."
He gives me what I need to make it happen, his fingers working me in slow, deliberate circles, reading my body the way he reads a bull, learning the patterns before he commits. Two fingers push inside me, and his thumb keeps that maddening pressure on my clit, and my thighs clamp around his hand because the pleasure is building so fast my body is trying to hold onto it.
He watches my face the entire time. Studies what breaks my breathing, what makes my back arch, what makes my mouth fall open on sounds I have no control over. When he curls his fingers and finds the spot that turns my vision white at the edges, he does it again immediately, and the orgasm rolls through me before I'm ready for it, a hot, clenching wave that bows my spine off the bed and leaves me gasping with his name caught somewhere between my teeth and my tongue.
He doesn't let me come down. He pulls his hand away and his mouth replaces it, his tongue flat and hot against my clit before I've stopped shaking from the first one. My hand flies to his hair and grips hard enough to hurt, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to care because his tongue is relentless, licking into me like he's been thinking about this specific act since the night we met and intends to take his time with it.
He pins my hips to the mattress with one forearm when I try to squirm away from the intensity and uses his free hand to spread me open so his mouth can get deeper. His tongue pushes inside me and then drags up, slow and thorough, and the groan he makes against my skin vibrates through every nerve ending south of my navel.
"Colt." His name comes out ragged. "I can't... it's too much."
He pulls back just far enough to speak against my inner thigh, his breath hot on the oversensitive skin. "You can."
He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, and the next orgasm tears through me with enough force to lock every musclein my body. I come with both hands fisted in his hair and my heels dug into his back, and the sounds I make are guttural and graceless and I do not care.
He works me through it, easing off only when my thighs stop trembling and my grip in his hair loosens. Then he kisses his way back up my body, and when his mouth finds mine I taste myself on his tongue and the intimacy of it is almost more overwhelming than the orgasm.
I reach for his belt again and this time he lets me. My hands are still unsteady but I get it open, get the zipper down, and he kicks free of the rest of his clothes. I get my hand around the hard length of him. He is thick and hot against my palm and when I stroke him from base to tip, his whole body goes rigid above me.
"Fuck," he breathes against my jaw, and the single word sounds like it cost him something.
I stroke him again, tighter, twisting at the head, and his hips thrust into my fist. The control he wears like armor is cracking and I want to watch it break. I want to be the one who breaks it.
He pulls my hand away and his forehead drops against mine and his breathing is ragged.
"I need to be inside you," he says. "Now."
"Then stop talking."
He notches himself against me and pushes in, slow and relentless, inch by inch. The stretch of him fills me so completely that my mouth opens on a silent gasp and my fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck standing taut while my body adjusts to the size of him.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. The controlled mask he wears is gone. What I find underneath is feral and consumed and entirely, terrifyingly focused on me.
He pulls back slow and drives in deep, and the sound I make is half moan and half something closer to a sob. He does it again, watching my face, cataloguing every flicker of sensation the same way he catalogued my body with his hands, and when he finds the angle that makes me cry out he locks into it and doesn't let go.
The pace he builds is punishing and precise. I match it, lifting my hips to meet each thrust, wrapping my legs around him, pulling him deeper. He responds with a groan that fractures against my collarbone, and I feel the vibration of it all the way down to where our bodies are joined.
My nails score lines down his back and he responds by pinning both wrists above my head with one hand, holding me there while his hips drive harder. The weight of him, the grip on my wrists, the relentless depth of every stroke, all of it builds into a pressure so intense that my whole body starts to shake.
"Give me that," he says, and his voice has dropped into something low and absolute.
The orgasm hits like a whiteout. Every muscle in my body locks tight around him and the release tears through me in waves so strong that my vision goes dark at the edges. I hear myself say his name, once, twice, and then his mouth covers mine and swallows the rest.
He lasts three more strokes. His rhythm breaks, his grip on my wrists tightens, and he buries himself as deep as he can go. The groan he lets out against my throat is the most unguarded thing I've ever heard from him. It sounds like it starts in his chest and rips its way out, raw and wrecked and close to anguished, like surrender is a language his body speaks but his mind has never learned.
He stays there, pressed deep, his face against my neck and his breath coming in harsh, uneven pulls against my skin. His hand releases my wrists and his fingers lace through mineinstead, and that small shift from control to connection hits me harder than anything that came before it.
We lie there, tangled together on the ruined sheets, and his body is still inside mine and his heartbeat slams against my ribcage where our chests are pressed together, and neither of us moves to separate.
Afterward, we lie on the ruined motel bed in the thin light leaking through the curtains, and neither of us speaks.
His arm is across my waist, proprietary even in the quiet. His breathing is evening out, but he's not asleep. The tension in his fingers against my hip gives him away, the way his thumb traces absent circles on my skin.
I stare at the ceiling and feel the lie sitting between us like a third body in the bed.
I am Grant Corbin's sister.
