Page 99 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

The man knew exactly what he was doing. He was skilled, patient and practiced, almost decadent in the way he used his body. He adjusted pace and pressure like he’d memorized her responses, taking her to the edge, denying her, then doing it again until it was her turn to beg.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “I want to feel you for as long as possible.”

“‘Possible’ is right here.” She arched into him, seeking more. “And here.” She did it again, tightening around him for friction. “And definitely here.”

She felt him smile against her throat. “What about here?”

His next thrust went deeper—much deeper—and she cried out, pleasure cutting clean and sharp. The following stroke she added a twist of her hips, and he was the one groaning.

That was it—game over.

His restraint snapped and he drove into her with a focus that stole her air and rearranged her understanding of sex. They met each other thrust for thrust, chasing the same peak, and suddenly her body wasn’t asking anymore—it was detonating.

Her very first man-made orgasm and—holy hell—she had been missing out. She’d wasted time with boys and Colter Callahan was a man—through and through.

Her whole body was sparking—tight, needy, right on the edge with no way down.

His lips dragged over her ear. “Can I come now?”

The question punched straight through her. “Yes,” she panted. “Fuck—yes.”

That was all it took. His control snapped and he drove into her harder, faster, rough enough to make the couch move back, using her body like the only thing he needed. Another orgasm ripped through her—sharp, shaking, a helpless clench around his cock—and he snarled when he felt it, thrusting deep as his own release tore out of him.

He poured into the condom with a broken curse, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to hers while they rode out every last pulse.

Dirty, wrecked, spent.

CHAPTER 37

Colter had no right to be this smug in a church rec room filled with crockpots and folding tables, but his body remembered everything from last night—her thighs shaking, her nails biting into his shoulders, her voice breaking when she’d screamed out his name.

Now Sutton stood across from him in a clean blouse and a freshly applied layer of lip gloss, looking every bit the composed single mom and absolutely none of the woman who’d told him to fuck her.

“Listen up!” someone called from the donation table.

It was Maribelle Windsor, who looked like southern hospitality dipped in venom and rolled in pearls.

She was somewhere north of seventy but styled like a debutante who’d never surrendered a crown—hair shellacked into a silver helmet, lipstick an aggressive shade of berry, and a string of pearls big enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons.

As the former general of the Bridlewood Regents—a title she refused to give up even when she lost to Rea by a vote of seventeen to one—she ran her organization with military precision. Behind her church-lady smile lived a woman who could organize a fundraiser, raise a ruckus, or ruin a man with nothing but a pointed glare.

Everyone respected her.

Everyone feared her.

And God help whoever ignored her instructions. Which was why, at the sound of her voice, the room went silent.

“We need final numbers on the auction baskets,” she said with the authority of a drill sergeant. “Sutton?”

Sutton straightened notes on her clipboard like she hadn’t been naked against his mouth just hours ago.

“Three more baskets came in—spa day, bourbon tasting, and a kid’s craft kit,” she said all composure and professionalism.

He almost laughed. He wanted to drag her into a supply closet and ruin that prim façade.

Instead, Colter leaned against a table near her, just close enough that his elbow brushed her arm. She stiffened—not a flinch, not quite avoidance—but a physical reminder that her body remembered his.

She cleared her throat. “If we start the silent auction at noon, we can have the live portion by six⁠—”