I shove the thought away. If I sit with it for two more seconds, I’m going to cry, and I’ve exceeded my quota of tears for the day. We’re done with the waterworks.
Instead, I drop to my knees.
“Sloane, you shouldn’t—” His voice catches. “I want to makeyoufeel good.”
“This does.”
I unbuckle his belt,and the raw need in his stormy gray eyes short-circuits my entire nervous system. The jeans and boxers come down, and when I take him in my mouth, he makes a guttural sound that I feel everywhere. His fingers thread through my hair, firmly but gently, and I know he’s holding on for balance, not trying to control me.
“Christ, Sunshine.”
There was a time when blowjobs were a way to keep sex safe and transactional. Something I could offer to keep men interested without risking true vulnerability. I could give a man pleasure without ever giving him anything real. Because real intimacy left too much room for rejection once someone saw the complicated, hurting parts of me.
This is not that.
This moment is the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced.
This man chased me into the wild, and I have him in my mouth with his fingers threading through my hair and his body trembling above me like he’s happy to let me undo him. It feels powerful in a way I can’t explain.
Me, on my knees, holding all the cards. I’ve spent so much ofmy life feeling like too much and not enough at the same time. This moment, and the way I feel powerful in it, are entirely right.
Before I can finish the thought, Jensen pulls away, then eases me up his body until we’re eye-to-eye. I’m dizzy from the sudden shift.
He cups my face in his hands. “I want to be inside you when I come.” He sounds completely wrecked. “I want to feel you come around me.”
A shaky laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “No arguments here, Nashville.”
He kisses me again, and the sweetness makes my chest ache. This is supposed to be a wilderness anomaly. Another fling between two consenting adults before we go back to our regular lives. And I keep telling myself that even as I keep finding new evidence that I’m full of shit.
But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Sloane. Tonight is part of the adventure, and I don’t need to know what comes next.
He picks me up, lays me on those worn sheets, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slowly pulls them down, watching my face the whole time. I want to crack a joke about the scenic route, but there’s no chance my voice will cooperate.
I expect him to slide into me, but he pushes my legs apart, kisses the inside of my knee, and works his way up with a patience that is frankly ridiculous. By the time his mouth finds my center, I’m already shaking. And when he licks my clit, I make a sound I can guarantee is brand spanking new for me.
“Jensen—”
He hums against me like this is his moment to savor, and his hands pin my hips down when I squirm from the intensity. His tongue is relentless, and when his thumb finds a spot I didn’t know existed, the orgasm that hits me is the full-body, eyes-rolling-back, making-noise-that-Rick-can-probably-hear-from-his-cabinkind. I come with both hands fisted in his hair and Jensen’s name half-stuck on my tongue.
I’m still spiraling somewhere in the afterglow as he climbs up my body, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and kisses me before I’ve caught my breath. I taste myself on his lips. It’s messy and perfect and a level of intimacy I can’t imagine sharing with anyone else.
When he positions himself and pushes inside me with one long, deliberate stroke, I shut my eyes and cry out from the pleasure of how right it feels. But also from something else I’m not willing to name.
Will I ever get used to how perfectly we fit together? It’s as if the universe is showing off by sending me a man who feels like he was built to give me pleasure.
He braces his forearm near my head, and when I open my eyes again, he’s looking at me with more than just desire. If I had to name it, I’d tell you it’s the face of a man who’s in love. Which feels both impossible and undeniable, and I don’t have the first clue what to do with either of those.
But some moments are too big for words, so I draw his head down to taste his mouth again and lift my hips to roll into him. He groans my name, and we find a rhythm that’s just ours, two people claiming each other because we can’t do anything else.
God, that’s sappy as shit. I blame the orgasm.
I don’t expect to come again. I mean, I’m still half-dazed and pretty sure I’ll be replaying that first round in the shower for the next year. But then he hooks his arm under my knee and changes the angle, and the pressure building inside of me has one inevitable outcome.
“Yeah,” he says, voice husky. “Let it go, Sloane?—”
I might have enjoyed a prolonged rebellious phase, but never let it be said that I’m incapable of following directions. I come a second time, pulsing around him in a way my body has never donewith anyone else. He follows right after, his breath hot against my ear and his hand finding mine on the pillow like he was meant to hold it.
For a long minute, we don’t move, and then…oh, hell no.
