Page 63 of Slow Burn

She nods, a short, sharp moan escaping her lips as I slide out and push my fingers back in. “More,” she rasps.

My fingers find her slick centre, the contact on a sensitive spot making her hiss, hips bucking toward me. She breaks eye contact with me and lets her head tip back as I slide my fingers into her opening, one and then two.

I use the pad of my thumb to circle her clit while I curl my fingers inside her. I give her everything she practically begged for. I watch as the sensations overtake Lyla, her thick dark lashes fluttering as her eyelids become heavy with lust.

With a few more strokes of my fingers, she becomes more swollen and wet, her moans have turned into desperate mewls, so I pump into her, feeling her walls clench around my fingers. I slide them in and out, curling upward to put pressure on her front wall.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna–” she starts, and then cuts herself off with a cry.

She pulses around me as her orgasm rips through her, every muscle in her body contracting. She writhes as she loses control. She’s not filtering herself, not wearing a mask.

She’s her.

Her whole exuberant self, and I fucking love her like this.

I kiss her temple gently, reverently, as she comes undone in my arms, her chest still heaving.

My cock is still at full mast when I shut off the water, but I’ll have to deal with that myself, on my own time.

I can hold firm when it comes to myself. For some reason, it’s easier to justify giving her pleasure. Maybe somewhere in my mind I think if I deny myself, I’ll have already punished myself enough by the time I have to come clean to Austin.

Reaching around the shower wall, I pull a towel off the rack, wrapping it around Lyla’s shoulders. Her eyelids are heavy, with the hazy aftermath of her orgasm or exhaustion, it’s difficult to say.

“Come on, Trouble,” I murmur, leaning down and scooping her up under her knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

I carry her into the bedroom and set her down in the bed, peeling back the covers. She relaxes into the mattress, and I remove her wet towel, covering her back up with the plush duvet. She mumbles something that I can’t make out, her eyes closing and then she’s out like a light, and I smile to myself.

Putting Lyla to bed like this is something I wouldn’t ever let myself dream of doing. It’s such a privilege, looking at her with her dark hair splayed across the pillow, expression peaceful and calm.

I head back into the bathroom, dry myself off, and pray that my erection goes down before I crawl into bed next to her.

For good measure, I find my boxers on the bathroom floor–the only piece of clothing that isn’t sopping or caked with mud–and slip into them.

Lyla stirs when I get into bed, her eyes cracking open. “I thought you left.”

Her voice is sleepy and low, but there’s a hint of something there. Something like a question, or maybe confusion, or surprise. An invisible fist grinds into my sternum, an ache radiating outward at the thought of Lyla–passionate, spirited, Lyla–thinking I would want to do anything other than stay here, next to her.

I pull her into me, tucking her against my warm body and wrapping her up tight.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, mouth pressed against the top of her head.

I feel her slacken in my arms, and before long, her breathing evens out and she falls asleep.

Sun streams in through the curtains, and I realize I’m already late to rise. Still, I don’t want to move, for fear of waking Lyla, tucked into the crook of my arm. I could lay here with her all morning. But I can’t. I have things to tend to on the ranch.

It’s relentless, this work.

Lyla’s eyes flutter open, her lashes brushing against my pec.

Five more minutes, I allow myself.

“Morning,” I say, the first word of the day comes out hoarse.

She blinks a few times, rubs her eyes, and she focuses on the tattoo where her cheek had been resting. She traces the thin lines that form the letter M with her index finger, stopping at each of the dots in between. Her brow furrows.

“What’s this?” she asks. She must not have noticed it in the heat of the moment last night, or at least, didn’t want to ask about it then.

“A constellation,” I answer.