Page 117 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

He didn’t waste a second—dipping his head and taking her glorious breast into his mouth. First one and—because equality is a thing—then the other, worshiping her until her nipples were so tight he knew she was on the thin border between pleasure and pain.

He’d always been a tits-over-legs kind of guy, and these were the thesis statement.

She started to cover her stomach, nerves sneaking in. He caught her wrists, moved her hands above her head, and shook his head like she’d offended the universe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said.

Color climbed into her cheeks—soft and sweet and so damn lethal that he had to kiss her again just to handle it. She slid her palms down his chest, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats like she was seconds away from yanking.

“So are you.”

He snorted, because what the hell else do you do when your heart glitches. “I’ve been called sexy, cocky, charming, a fucking mortal among men—take your pick. Never beautiful.”

She held his stare, unflinching. “Then no one was paying attention because you’re so much more than those labels.”

Elation punched up through him—a raw and inconvenient emotion he hadn’t felt since before his parents passed.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, so he kissed her instead. One kiss became two, became five, became a slow slide into something heated and wordless and hungry—mouths fusing, breaths tangling, talking without language.

He didn’t know how long he lay there with her naked in his arms, kissing like they needed it. When heat finally tipped into wildfire, he trailed his mouth down her throat to that breathtaking cleavage and ran his tongue along the valley just to hear her lose composure.

“Mmmm…” she hummed, unapologetically needy.

“You’re right. Perfect,” he whispered against her skin. “Every inch of you.”

She laughed breathlessly, fingers still in his waistband. “I feel underdressed. Or are you overdressed?”

He glanced down at his still-on briefs and grinned like a sinner caught red-handed. “Freckles, I’m one tug from fixing that problem.”

Before he could make another smart remark, she slid her hands down his sides, hooked her fingertips into the band, and shimmied them down his hips. The pressure of her hands dragging his underwear lower had him swearing under his breath. She pushed them past his thighs, then his knees, until they dropped to the floor.

He reached blindly for the nightstand drawer and came up with a box of condoms, a six-pack tearing free in his hand.

She stared at them, one brow raised. “Planning a marathon or did you think I invited friends?”

“Bought them after the other night. Wanted to be ready in case you climbed me again.”

That answer must have satisfied her, because she plucked one from his fingers and tore it open. Her hands were a mess of intention and distraction, sliding down his length under the guise of helping. It was not help, it was torture, and he welcomed every second of it.

Having her hands on him was a fantasy come to life. She was a fantasy come to life. One he wanted to pull out of imagination and into the real damn world.

When she finished rolling the condom down his length, she lay back, legs open, eyes daring him to claim what she was offering.

“Take me hard and fast.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He positioned himself, lowered his hips, and pushed into her slow and deep, sinking into heat that stole his breath and his balance. She clutched his shoulders and pulled him closer.

Welcome to reality.

CHAPTER 43

Sutton woke just before dawn, that strange blue hour when the world looked suspended between night and morning. For one long second, she was warm, tucked beneath a heavy arm and held in place by a steady heartbeat under her ear. Relaxed and treasured.

Then panic sucker punched her ribs.

She was in Colter’s bed, still wrapped up in Colter’s arms, and Lynlee was next door, sleeping alone with no idea her mother had disappeared for the night.