"I told Wyatt and Sawyer to handle the morning," I said. "And the afternoon."
She stared at me. "You?—"
"Texted them last night." I met her eyes. "Before the bench. Figured we'd need the day."
"You planned this."
"I plan most things." I ran my thumb along her hip. "They've got the cattle. Neto's got the fence line. Nobody needs me until sundown." I held her gaze. "Which means I've got nowhere to be except right here, keeping you full and working you over until your body has taken everything I've got."
Her mouth had fallen open slightly.
"All day," she said.
"All day."
"That's—" She stopped. Her hips rolled involuntarily against mine and she bit her lip. "That's a lot."
"You can take it."
"You don't know that?—"
"Millie." I looked at her steadily. "I watched you take twenty-one minutes on that bench last night after I'd already been inside you twice. I know exactly what you can take."
Her face went pink all the way to her ears.
I turned the vibrator on.
She grabbed the quilt.
"Wait—" she started.
"Still inside you," I said. "Remember that. Every time it pulls, every time you clench, every time your body does what it's supposed to do—" I pressed it against her and she arched hard, a sharp cry escaping "—I'm still right there. Deep as I can get. Nowhere for any of it to go."
"Oh god?—"
"Clock's right there," I said pleasantly.
She looked at the clock. Looked back at me. Something in her expression was wrecked and wanting and completely, utterly surrendered.
"Twenty minutes," she said.
"Twenty minutes," I agreed. "And then I'll give you a little while to breathe." I held the vibe steady and watched her eyes go glassy. "And then we're going to do it again."
"Again," she said faintly.
"And again after that." I rocked my hips, just slightly, just enough, and felt her clench around me. "I told you. All day."
She dropped her head back against the pillow.
I settled in and watched her.
That was the thing I hadn't anticipated—how much I wanted to watch. Not just the physical of it, though that was its own particular destruction, but the way she came undone. The specific sequence of it. The way her hands first gripped the quilt, then let go, then gripped again. The way she tried to hold still and couldn't. The way my name sounded different in hermouth every single time, each one a slightly different shade of desperate.
I was making her into a raw nerve and she was letting me and there was something in that so far past the contract, so far past the arrangement, so far past anything I'd walked into that clinic expecting—I looked at her falling apart on my quilt in the morning light and I thought:this is what I was waiting for. This is the thing I didn't know I was waiting for.
"Gage," she said. Broken.
"Right here," I said.
