Page 79 of The Widow and the Wanted

“God, yes! Please… Oh, please,” he gasps, his plea whimpered again and again. If he thought he was being quiet before, he clearly abandons any effort. Holding nothing back, he moans loud enough it echoes in the room.

Whatever restraint Okee had left snaps.

Harder now.

I press my thighs together beneath the blanket. My breath has gone shallow, ragged. I don’t mean to let my hand drift down. I don’t mean to let my fingers slip beneath the waist of my drawers. But the sight of Boone yielding like that undoes me.

The sounds they make pull at me, the wet slide of flesh, the soft clap of skin meeting skin, Okee’s breathing, low and controlled, like he’s reining himself in by sheer will, every exhale measured as if he's fighting the urge to let go completely.

My fingers move faster without permission, chasing the same helpless rhythm they set.

Shame burns hot, but it only feeds the want, makes it sharper, hungrier.

I watch Boone’s face in stolen glances: the way his brows knit, then smooth out in surrender, the way his lips part wider with every thrust. There is no shame in him here, only trust so complete it feels sacred. To see him like this, vulnerable in a way I’ve never been allowed to witness, stripped of every defense, is like being handed something forbidden. It undoes me more than the sight of their bodies joined.

My breath catches, shallow and uneven. I bite my lip to keep any sound locked inside. I can’t tear my eyes away. My fingers circle faster, slick and urgent, pressing hard against my tender bud. My thighs tremble under the blanket, liquid heat pooling low, tightening until I can barely breathe, until I’m right at the precipice.

“Okee, please, I’m so close.”

“Go ahead,” Okee grunts.

With a small sigh of relief, Boone’s hand drops between them.

My whole body seizes. My thighs close hard around my hand, my back bowing off the pallet before I can stop it. The pleasure is sudden and vicious, a hot wave that tears through me and takes every sensible thought with it.

I bite my cheek until copper floods my tongue, swallowing the cry before it can escape. My nipples tighten so quick and taut it stings. The climax goes on and on, leaving me shaking in the dark, my hand trapped between my thighs, my eyes fixed helplessly on them.

Boone comes a heartbeat later—body seizing, a choked, guttural sound tearing out of him. The pool of spend on his belly gleams in the firelight. Okee follows almost immediately, burying himself with a rough, shuddering groan.

For long seconds the only sounds are their harsh breathing and the faint crackle of embers. They stay joined, Okee draped over Boone, lips brushing his neck in slow, lazy kisses. Boone’s body goes soft, spent, utterly relaxed beneath the weight of the man who just took him apart.

I lie perfectly still while inside my heart hammers, hand still cupped between my thighs, sticky and trembling. The blanket is twisted around my legs. Sweat cools on my skin. The air smells of woodsmoke, sex, and something sweeter—something like a kind of intimacy I’ve only ever watched from the outside.

Okee smooths Boone’s hair back from his forehead, a quiet motion full of the sort of familiarity that makes my chest swell too large to contain with any dignity. I have watched them belong to one another with a certainty so deep it makes me feel like a stray dog nosing at the door.

Chapter 22

Okee

The cabin gives a long, low creak as a gust strikes it, and somewhere outside a branch snaps, sharp as a rifle shot. Boone stirs, sitting up with a grunt and reaching for the basin near the hearth, where the water has gone lukewarm despite the fire. He is bare but for the blanket pooled loose around his hips, his shoulder bound in linen gone soft from wear.

Without a word he wets the rag, wrings it out with one strong hand, and turns to me. His gaze drops straight to my spent cock, still half hard and glistening with the mess we made of each other.

He starts there.

Rough fingers wrap loosely around the base of my shaft, holding me steady while he brings the warm cloth to my skin. He cleans me with slow, deliberate strokes. There is no ceremony to it, only habit and tenderness. The water smells faintly of soap.

Only when I am clean does he turn the cloth on himself, wiping his spend from his middle with a muttered curse for the pull in his wounded shoulder.

Lula shifts in the firelight. It catches a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, wiping her face. “It’s nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. I look at her—at the soft line of her mouth, the loosened curl of her hand near her cheek, and a troubling, tender pull draws me toward her. “Did we upset you?” I ask.

Boone simply leans forward and holds out his hand. No words are exchanged, but after a brief pause she takes it, and he pulls her gently toward us.