“Off,” he murmured against my throat, and I didn't hesitate. The shirt came off in one motion, and his eyes traveled over my chest like he was seeing art for the first time.
“Fuck, look at you.” His voice was rough with want. “The way the light hits your shoulders...”
I pulled at his shirt, needing to see him too. When it was gone, I ran my hands over his lean torso, feeling the play of muscle under tanned skin. He was beautiful in that effortless way that made me want to trace every line with my tongue.
“You look like a fucking renaissance sculpture,” he said, fingers trailing down my stomach where a thin line of dark hair disappeared beneath my waistband.
“Yeah? What does that make you?”
“The artist who gets to worship it.”
The words sent heat straight through me. I backed him toward one of the larger rocks, limestone that had been worn smooth by centuries of weather. “Then worship me.”
He pushed me down onto the stone, the surface warm against my back. Morning sunlight filtered through oak leaves, painting patterns on our skin as he kneeled between my legs. The contrast of his golden hair against the weathered limestone and green foliage around us looked like something from a painting come to life.
His hands worked at my belt, movements quick but not rushed. Everything felt deliberate, purposeful, like he'd been thinking about this as much as I had. When he got my jeans open, I lifted my hips to help him work them down my legs.
“Commando?” He grinned, taking in my naked body.
“Seemed optimistic this morning.”
“I like optimistic.”
He leaned down and kissed my hipbone, then traced a line down my inner thigh with his tongue. The sensation made me gasp, my good hand fisting in his hair.
“Dusty—”
“Let me take care of you.” His breath was warm against my skin. “Let me show you what your body can feel when it's not fighting everything.”
His mouth found me then, hot and wet and perfect. The first touch of his tongue made my back arch off the stone, a groan escaping me that echoed through the trees. The sound of the stream masked everything else—our breathing, the small sounds he made as he worked me over, the way I couldn't help but whisper his name.
“God, yes,” I groaned, my fingers threading through his hair. “Just like that.”
He took me deeper, humming around me in a way that sent vibrations through my entire body. My shoulder didn't hurt. My head wasn't spinning with worst-case scenarios. There was just this, sun and stone and Dusty's mouth making me forget everything except how fucking good it was to be alive.
When I was close—too close—I tugged at his hair. “Stop. I want...”
He pulled off, lips shiny and swollen. “What do you want?”
“You. Inside me. Here.”
His eyes darkened as he met mine, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He reached for his hiking pack, digging through it until he pulled out a small first aid kit. He flipped it open, rifling through bandages and antiseptic wipes until his fingers closed around what he was looking for: a small tube of petroleum jelly.
“Seriously?” I couldn't help laughing.
“Multi-purpose.” He twisted the cap off with his teeth, that feral grin never leaving his face. “Works for chapped lips, dry skin... and other emergencies.”
He set the tube on the rock beside me, then stood to undo his jeans. The sound of his zipper was obscene against the background of rustling leaves and flowing water.
I flipped onto my stomach, the stone warm against my chest and belly. Behind me, I heard the sound of his jeans hitting the ground as he stepped out of them, standing naked in the dappled sunlight.
His hands were gentle but sure as he prepared me, fingers slick and patient as he worked me open. The sensation was intense, not just physical but overwhelming, anchoring me in my body in a way the pills never could.
“More,” I gasped when he added a second finger.
“You sure?”
“I'm sure. I need all of you.”
