Page 12 of Colt’s Betrayal

The body I remember is there somewhere beneath the man he became, but Colt is broader now, harder through his chest and stomach. My fingers catch over muscle and tattoos I haven't seen before. He watches my face while I touch him.

“That different?”

“You have no idea.”

“Show me.”

I pull his shirt over his head. That was a mistake, or maybe the best idea I've had in years. Ink covers far more of him than it used to, black lines disappearing over his shoulders and down both arms. His chest is hard under my hands, his stomach tighter than I remember.

He grabs the hem of my top and waits while I lift my arms. The shirt disappears onto the floor. His expression when he sees me in my bra makes every smart comment vanish.

“Fuck. I want you, you know that?” I should feel self-conscious.

I'm not nineteen anymore either. My body changed. Softened in places. Became something different from the girl he knew. But Colt looks at me like different is exactly what he wants. His fingers trace the strap over my shoulder. “You're fucking beautiful.” The simplicity of it hits harder than a dozen clever lines could. I reach for his belt, and his breath changes.

“Still leaving for that drink?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Then you better stop doing that.”

I undo the buckle anyway and he closes his eyes for half a second.

“Jesus Christ.”

I smile. “That sounded almost religious.”

“Keep talking.”

I slide my hand lower and his hand closes around my wrist before I get very far. Not stopping me, just looking at me.

“Bedroom, now.”

The word makes my pulse jump and I should probably think about whether this is sensible. Instead I take his hand and lead him upstairs. When we get to my bedroom, he stops us and his mouth closes over the side of my neck. My decision gets considerably easier and we barely make it through the bedroom door.

Colt turns me toward him, hands at my waist while I work open his jeans. He pushes mine down at the same time, and there is something almost funny about twelve years of emotional damage being temporarily defeated by two adults getting tangled in their own clothes. Then his hand slips between my thighs and I stop laughing.

“Fuck, Jayne.”

My forehead drops against his shoulder and I grip it. Colt remembers enough to know exactly what makes my knees weaken. His touch is slower than I remember, more confident, and he watches me with an intensity that makes the whole thing feel dangerously intimate. I tug him closer.

“Bed.”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

He pushes me gently backward until the mattress catches behind my knees. For the first time since we started, we slow. Not much, but enough. Colt stands between my legs, looking down at me, and the heat in his expression changes into something that hits deeper.

“Twelve fucking years.”

I reach for him.

“Then don't waste another minute talking about it.”

That gets his mouth back on mine. The rest comes fast. Clothes disappear. His weight settles over me, familiar and completely new at the same time. His hand closes around my thigh and pulls it higher as he moves between my legs. The first push inside makes both of us stop. Not because anything is wrong, but because everything is suddenly too much. Colt's forehead drops against mine. “Fuck, Jayne.”

I wrap one leg around him. “Keep going.” He does. Slowly at first, giving my body time to remember something my mind never forgot. Then deeper when I pull him closer. The sound that leaves me makes his control disappear. His rhythm changes, harder and faster, and I meet every movement because I've spent too many years remembering what this felt like only to discover memory didn't come close.

His hand slides beneath my back, holding me tighter while his mouth finds mine again. Nothing about it is polite and nothing is cautious. It's twelve years of anger and missing and wondering poured into skin and breath, and the way Colt says my name against my mouth like it still belongs to him. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. “Don't slow down.”