He was hot, heavy, velvet over steel. I stroked experimentally and he groaned, low and rough, head dropping until our lips were just inches apart.
“I’ve never done this,” I whispered against his lips. “I’m a virgin.”
He went still, breath catching. Those dark eyes searched mine.
“You sure you want it to be here? With me?”
“I’m sure.” I stroked him again, firmer. “I want you. Please.”
He kissed me deeply, then sat back on his heels and pulled his T-shirt off. The sight of him—broad shoulders, river-tanned skin, dark ink running down both forearms and curling up over his biceps—made fresh heat bloom low in my belly. He took a condom from the dry bag clipped to his shorts, rolled it on with steady hands, then settled between my thighs again.
“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “We can stop. Anytime.”
I nodded, heart pounding. He rubbed the head of his cock against my slick folds, teasing my clit until I was squirming, then began to push inside.
The stretch burned. I sucked in a sharp breath as he worked the first inch in, then another. It was too much, too full, a stinging pressure that made my eyes water. I gripped his shoulders, nails digging in.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmured, holding still. One hand slipped between us and his thumb found my clit again, rubbing slow, perfect circles. The sharp edge of pain started to blur, melting into something warmer, deeper. He rocked gently, giving me time, whispering against my neck—so tight, so good—until the burn eased into a heavy, aching fullness.
When he finally sank all the way in, we both groaned. He held perfectly still, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving. I could see the strain in his face—jaw tight, eyes dark and glassy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck. His thumb kept circling my clit in slow, slick strokes, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through the ache.
I whimpered, the sound embarrassingly needy. The outdoor air felt cool against my heated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and thighs.
“Move,” I whispered, voice trembling. “Please, Kyron.”
He groaned again, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, and began to rock. Slow, careful strokes at first, each one dragging against sensitive places I didn’t know existed. The burning stretch gradually melted into a deep, liquid pleasure that made my toes curl inside my sandals. Our bodies made soft, rhythmic sounds—skin against skin, the quiet wet slide of him, the faint creak of moss and roots beneath us.
He angled his hips and drove in harder. I cried out, a sharp, breathless moan that echoed off the water. He cursed under hisbreath and picked up the pace, thumb pressing firmer and faster on my swollen clit.
I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, the heels of my river sandals digging into his lower back. My fingers dug into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside me. Every thrust sent sparks racing up my spine. The risk of being seen, the open sky above us, the river murmuring just feet away—it all heightened every sensation until I felt dizzy with it.
“Kyron—oh God?—”
My voice broke into a series of desperate, whimpering moans as the second orgasm crashed over me without warning. My whole body seized, back arching hard off the bank as powerful waves of pleasure ripped through me. I clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, crying out sharply with every contraction.
His rhythm faltered. He buried himself deep and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a long, guttural groan that sounded almost pained. I felt every pulse, every throb of him inside me as he spilled into the condom. His body shuddered against mine, another low, broken sound vibrating against my neck as the last spasms rolled through him.
We stayed locked together, panting hard. The only sounds were our ragged breathing, the slow lap of the river, and the distant call of a bird somewhere downstream. My body felt raw, tender, and utterly spent—pleasure still humming through my veins.
He kissed me softly, then eased out with a careful tenderness that made my chest ache. We stayed tangled on the bank while the river kept moving past us.
I was leaving in three days. I’d known it since I unpacked the car. I’d been keeping it where I could see it—right there, visible, a fact I wasn’t hiding from myself. It didn’t help as much as I thought it would.
He went still beside me. “Red-tailed,” he said.
I followed his eyeline to the far bank. A hawk was working the tree line, low and patient, riding something I couldn’t feel from here.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Tail color. Belly band.” He said it the same way he said everything—flat and certain, no performance in it. “Call’s different too, if you hear it.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. We were sitting on a riverbank in the middle of nowhere with the honeysuckle in my hair and he was identifying hawks with the same energy he used to discuss equipment logistics.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” I said.
He didn’t answer. He looked at the hawk for another moment and then his hand found mine on the bank between us and stayed there. His thumb moved once across my knuckles and went still.
The hawk dropped below the tree line. The river kept doing what rivers did.
