Page 117 of Sterling Stone

“Too good,” I answer.

His lips curl out of that pucker of concern into a full-blown grin.

With one hand bracing my hip, the other works his magic, sliding up and down inside of me, filling me. His thumb joins the mix, flickering over where I’m sensitive and slick, like the flames dancing around us.

I’m twisted up, spiraling like a climbing blaze.

“Stone.” My breath hitches as I ride his fingers. I pitch forward, resting my hands on his belly, balancing on my shins, as I drag myself along his fingers.

My hair around me. My dress covers my thighs. My breasts spilling from the top of my bodice.

And I move like I’m a skilled horsewoman. Like I’d know the first thing about country living when I don’t know a thing about cowboys.

I only know what this man does for me.

“Now,” I grunt, needing this, needing something, as my belly flutters and my legs start to ache.

I need more. I need him. Inside me.

“Not yet. Come for me first.”

Typically, I would hate commands like that one, but in that quiet tenor that’s deep and rough and a little demanding, I acquiesce. Giving in to that spiral inside me, letting it snap and release, rushing rapidly through me.

I squeeze at the sides of his abs, digging my nails into his flesh as I arch my back, thrust down on his fingers, and scream into the night. “Fuck!”

I’m a banshee, reckless and wild, hair streaming in all directions. I’m a goddess in the stars, glowing and dancing among the heavens. I’m me, centered over this man. This incredible man, who has me undone in more ways than one.

Sticky release coats my inner thighs. I know what just happened to me, what he did to me, and I tug at my dress, whipping it over my head. I’m naked, other than my boots, and I reach for his hat on the box, setting it on my head. Living out a fantasy.

I shove at his shirt, forcing him to be as exposed as I feel, at least on the upper half of him.

Fisting his firmness, I balance on the tip only for a second. One painful beat where both our breaths catch, and time almost stands still, before I bring him into me, surrounding him, embracing him. Full to the hilt, the suddenness of the motion jostles the truck ever so slightly.

The candle flames flare, matching the rhythm in my chest.

A blip on a heart monitor. A beat I want to repeat again and again.

Stone grunts from the suddenness. He clutches my hips, squeezing at spots that feel permanently marked by him. Only his hands fit there. Then he’s moving me, guiding me, up and down again, slower this time.

Patience.

The unspoken word whispers between us.

I follow his lead as we dance to a new song. One set by two heartbeats and ancient lyrics. The oldest dance in existence.

I try to make eye contact, but the intensity eventually feels like too much. Too intimate. Too real. I gaze where he enters my body instead, marveling at how well we fit.

And not just like this, but in so many other ways. Ways my brain cannot process in the moment. Instead, I give in to this one. This point in time when nothing else seems to matter.

Only him and me. Us.

“Fuck, I don’t know if I can continue this slow,” he eventually admits, his head lolls to the side. His eyes close with each tender surge.

He bucks a little sharper, deeper.

“Yeah,” I whisper. Drawing out this connection is almost making the result happen faster.

He’s so hard, and I’m so wet, and together we’re making a mess.