"Bed."
He lifts me. Both hands under my thighs, hiking me up, my legs wrapping his waist. My back hits the loft ladder and he pins me there, grinding into me, hard enough through his jeans I feel exactly what twelve years of wanting does to a man. The friction against my clit through denim makes me whimper.
"Bed," I repeat. "Now. Unless you're planning to fuck me against a ladder."
"Thought about it." He carries me up the loft stairs, one arm under my ass, one gripping the rail, like I weigh nothing. I'm biting his neck and I feel the rumble of his laugh against my teeth.
The loft bed's made tight. Military corners. I'm on my back before I can appreciate the irony, and he's standing at the edge, unbuckling his belt.
I undo my jeans. Shimmy them down, kick them off the edge. He watches every inch of skin that comes into view with an intensity that makes my toes curl.
"Get down here," I tell him.
His jeans drop. Boxer briefs. The outline of his cock straining against the cotton makes my breath stutter. He shoves them down, steps out, and he's built the way the rest of him is. Thick. Unforgiving.
He comes down over me, one knee between my thighs, forearm braced by my head, and his cock drags hot and heavy against my inner thigh.
"Twelve years," I whisper, cupping his face. "I've got you."
His forehead drops to mine. Breathing hard. Then his hand slides down my stomach, past my navel, into my underwear, and two rough fingers press flat against my clit.
My hips jolt off the bed.
"Soaked," he says against my mouth. "Christ, Paige."
He strokes. Slow, deliberate circles, reading my body the way he reads a tree. Finding the rhythm that makes me gasp, adjusting when I arch, pressing harder when my thighs clamp around his wrist.
"Aiden. Please."
His fingers slide down. Push inside me. Two, thick, curling up, and my spine bows off the mattress. His thumb stays on my clit while he works me, and the sounds coming out of my mouth aren't words anymore.
"That's it." Low. In my ear. "Let me hear you."
I come around his fingers with my fist in the sheets and his name broken apart in my throat. He doesn't stop. Keeps stroking through the aftershocks until my hand grabs his wrist.
"Condom," I pant. "Please tell me you have?—"
"Wallet. Jeans."
"You carry condoms in the woods?"
"Bought 'em two days ago. Right after you left this cabin."
I laugh, breathless, and it turns into a moan when he pulls his fingers out and puts them in his mouth. Those dark eyes on mine while he tastes me.
"Lord have mercy," I whisper.
He retrieves the condom. Rolls it on. Comes back over me.
The first press of him at my entrance makes us both go still. He's big. I'm ready but I still feel every inch as he pushes forward, slow, watching my face.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Don't stop."
He doesn't stop. Slides in to the hilt, fills me completely, and the stretch burns so good my nails dig into his back. His head drops to the crook of my neck. The sound he makes there is raw. Broken open.
"Move," I tell him, wrapping my legs around his hips.
