Page 94 of Wild Sanctuary

She shatters. Her back arches off the door and her mouth opens on a sound she tries to muffle against my shoulder and her body clenches around my fingers so hard I groan heavily.

I hold her through it. Every pulse, every aftershock, my forehead pressed to her temple as I breathe her in.

And watching her come undone, feeling her shake apart with my name on her lips, her face open and unguarded and so trusting it splits me wide, I lose it.

I don’t mean to. I’m thirty-five years old and I haven’t lost control in years.

But she’s still pulsing around my fingers, still rocking through the aftershocks. Every shudder rippling through her rolls her hips forward and grinds her down against the front of my jeans where I’m almost painfully hard. My cock’s pinned between her thigh and the denim of my jeans. The material is already damp from her orgasm, and every time she shifts I get friction I can’t stop.

Then she makes this sound. This small, broken, satisfied sigh against my neck.

And that’s what does it. My hips jerk against her helplessly and I bury my face in her hair and come so hard my vision goes white.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe, with her legs still locked around me, and my hands still on her. With my face still lying into the curve of her neck. With the porch light buzzing above us and the whole empty valley spread out behind us and neither of us caring about a damn bit of it.

Then Daisy starts laughing.

A quiet, breathless, disbelieving laugh that shakes through her ribs and into mine. And I can’t help it. I laugh too. Rough and low and stunned, because I just made Daisy Monroe come against her own front door and then came in my pants like a teenager while the whole of Blackstone Creek slept, and it’s the most honest thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Did you just—” she starts.

“Don’t.”

She pulls back, and her face is luminous. Flushed and glowing and smiling at me like I’m something worth looking at. “Wyatt Hartley.”

“I said don’t.”

“That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

I drop my head against her shoulder and groan, but I’m still laughing, and her fingers are running through my hair, and for thirty perfect seconds the world is exactly right.

“Alright.” I set her down gently. Her legs wobble and I steady her, both hands on her waist. “Let’s get you inside before I lose what’s left of my dignity.”

She grins up at me. Wild-haired and bright-eyed and so thoroughly ruined I can barely stand it.

“I think your dignity left about two minutes ago.”

“Appreciate that.”

She turns toward the door, still laughing, and digs her key from her bag. Fits it in the lock and pushes it open.

And the laughter just stops.

I see it over her shoulder. The lamp knocked sideways, casting a sick angle of light across the floor. Drawers pulled open. Papers scattered. The couch cushions slashed and tossed. Her laptop gone from the desk.

Daisy goes rigid under my hands.

Every nerve in my body that was loose and warm thirty seconds ago fires at once. I pull her behind me, one arm barring her from the doorway, and scan the room for signs of an intruder.

“Don’t move.” My voice goes cold. “Stay right here.”

“Wyatt—”

“Right here, Daisy.”

I step inside and clear it fast. Bathroom. Behind the shower curtain. Under the bed. Nobody. Whoever did this is gone.

“Wyatt?” Her voice from the porch. Small in a way Daisy Monroe’s voice should never be.