She strokes me until my hips are driving up into her fist and my jaw is clenched and I'm gripping the sheets to keep from flipping her over.
"Condom," I grit out.
She reaches for the foil packet. Tears it open. Rolls it down my length with a deliberate slowness that's either careful or evil. Possibly both.
Then she rises on her knees, positions me at her entrance, and sinks down.
Inch by devastating inch until I'm buried inside her and her palms are flat on my chest and her mouth is open and her eyes are locked on mine.
"God," she breathes. "You feel..."
She doesn't finish. She rolls her hips instead, and the sensation of her riding me, tight and wet and achingly slow, obliterates whatever was left of my ability to think.
I grip her hips. Not to control her, though every instinct in me wants to. To anchor myself. Because watching Shelby Cruise take her pleasure from my body, watching her head fall back and her breasts move and her stomach flex as she finds her rhythm,is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I need something to hold onto.
She speeds up. Braces her hands on my chest and rides me with an abandon that's raw and real and stripped of every performance she's ever put on for the world. This is Shelby without the adventure persona. Without the fearless facade. This is the woman underneath, desperate and vulnerable and claiming something she's been afraid to want.
"That's it," I growl, gripping her hips harder, meeting her rhythm with upward thrusts that make her gasp. "Take what you need. Take everything."
She leans down and kisses me, sloppy and urgent, and I wrap one arm around her back and flip us in a single motion. She lands on her back with me between her thighs and I drive into her deep and her nails score down my back in lines I'll feel for days.
I hook her leg over my shoulder. The angle lets me go deeper and her eyes go wide and glassy. I thrust hard and steady, watching her face, reading every micro-expression the way I read weather patterns, adjusting until I find the combination that pushes her to the edge.
"Come for me, Shelby." I press my thumb against her clit, rubbing in tight circles. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
She shatters. Her whole body locks up, her pussy gripping me so tight I see stars, and the pulsing clench of her orgasm drags me over the edge with her. I bury myself to the hilt and come so hard my vision goes dark, my face pressed into the curve of her neck, her name the only word my mouth remembers how to form.
We stay there. Connected. Breathing each other's air. The storm still raging outside like the world is ending, and in here, in this room, something is beginning.
I roll to the side but keep her pulled against me. Her head on my chest. My hand in her hair. Her fingers drawing idle patterns on my ribs.
"Cory?"
"Yeah."
"I need to tell you something. And I need you not to go into military response mode."
I tense. I can't help it. She feels it and puts her palm flat against my sternum like she's steadying me.
"I have an ex," she says. "His name is Garrett. We were together for eight months. He was controlling in ways I didn't recognize until I was already in it. When I left, he didn't take it well. He's been tracking my movements through my published work for the past four months. Anonymous emails. Comments on my posts that reference specific details about where I am. Nothing overtly threatening, just... persistent. Observational. Like he's letting me know he's watching."
Every protective instinct in my body activates simultaneously. The SEAL doesn't retire. He just redirects.
"How long since the last contact?"
"Yesterday. He referenced an Instagram story I posted on the drive up here."
"Did you delete it?"
"Immediately."
"Does he know you're at Mountain Ready specifically?"
"I don't think so. The story was just mountain road footage. No identifying markers."
"But your article will have location details when it publishes."
She's quiet. Her finger stops drawing patterns.
