Page 10 of Broken Cedar

The question is genuine. Colt has never taken anything that wasn’t offered, and even now, with his hand between my legs and my body trembling against his, he’s asking.

“No,” I gasp. “Don’t stop. Please, please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His thumb moves, and heat builds low in my belly. My thighs shake. I’m so close to coming it’s almost embarrassing.

“Let go, Hallie. I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my ear.

That’s all it takes to tip me over the edge and I come. Hard. A wave that starts deep and rolls outward, pulling a moan from my throat that he catches with his free hand, his palm pressed against my mouth, and the combination of his hand silencing me, his finger inside me, his body warm and solid against mine, pushes the orgasm higher than I thought possible. I shake against him. My inner muscles clamp around his finger, and he works me through it, gentle but relentless, until the pleasure borders on too much and I have to grab his wrist to steady myself.

When my pussy finally stops pulsing around his fingers, he withdraws slowly, and holds his hand between us. His eyes are on my face, taking in the flush that spreads across my cheeks.

“W-we really can’t do this,” I say, and my voice is wrecked.

“I know.” He agrees, stepping closer, pressing himself against me. His erection is obvious against his jeans, and the size of it makes my mouth go dry. “But I’m not sure I can walk away right now.”

“Me either.” I breathe, reaching for him. My hand finds the outline of his cock through denim, and he hisses. I stroke him through the fabric. Feel the hardness, the heat, the slight damp spot where pre-come has leaked through.

Colt closes his eyes, his jaw working. I can see the battle happening—the part of him that knows better, that has always known better, fighting a losing war against the part that has wanted this for as long as I have.

“Just this once,” he says breathlessly as I continue to stroke him. “We do this, just this once, to get it out of our systems. Then we go back to normal.”

“Normal,” I agree, and we both know it’s a lie, but we need it right now, this thin pretense that what’s about to happen is casual, manageable, a one-time release and not the crossing of a line we can never uncross.

He unbuckles his belt and works his jeans open, freeing his cock. The head is slick with pre-come, and the sight of it sends a fresh wave of want through me so intense I have to press my thighs together. He reaches over and shimmies my jeans down, then my panties.

Then he steps closer and lifts me, pressing me back against the kitchen wall, my legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. My jeans are around my ankles. His are pushed down just enough. We are a mess of fabric and skin and desperate, hungry breathing, and none of it matters because his cock is nudging against my entrance.

“Christ, Hallie. You’re so wet,” he murmurs against my neck, and the wonder in his voice is its own kind of pleasure.

“Please,” I gasp. “I want to feel you.”

He presses against my entrance, and the tip slides in, but then I move, or he does, and suddenly he’s sinking deeper, two inches, three, and the stretch is glorious, burning, perfect. My back arches off the wall, my tits pressing against his chest. My legs lock around his hips, pulling him deeper, and the sound he makes—a low, punched-out groan—is the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.

“Don’t stop,” I hiss against his neck. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He doesn’t. He pushes himself all the way in, and the fullness is so intense I moan, embarrassingly loud, and Colt throws his hand over my mouth so fast it’s almost comical. Our eyes meet. His are wide, startled. Mine are probably the same.

We both laugh, because what are we doing, what the fuck are we actually doing?

After a minute, he moves. One slow, deliberate thrust, dragging against every nerve ending I possess. Then another. His hand is still over my mouth. His rhythm finds its pace, each stroke hitting deep inside of me.

“Christ, Hallie,” he breathes against my ear. “You feel so good. Too fucking good.”

I rock my hips in answer. My hands find his face, holding him to me, and he increases his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. I am making sounds against his palm that would mortify me in daylight, but daylight is hours away, and right now the only thing that matters is the way his cock fills me, the way his breath rasps against my neck, the way his hips drive into me.

His hand leaves my mouth and finds my breast through my shirt. I push my bra out of the way, desperate for him to touch me, and his palm finds my bare nipple, rolling it between his fingers. I moan, and this time I don’t care if my mother hears, because rational thought has clearly left the building.

“Touch yourself,” he says, and the command in his voice sends a fresh pulse of heat through my core. “I want to watch you come on my cock.”

I swallow and nod. Reaching down between us, my breath shudders as my hand finds my clit. The contact is almost too much—oversensitive, swollen, so close to the edge that the first touch has me gasping. Colt watches, his eyes darkening. His thrusts become more deliberate, angled to hit that spot inside me that makes my toes curl.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Such a good girl for me. Let go. I want to feel you come.”

The praise is so unexpected, that it undoes me. Completely. The words land somewhere deep and primal, and my orgasm builds faster than I can track it—a tightening, a coiling, a gathering pressure that has me clutching at his shoulders and biting my lip to keep from screaming.

“I’m close,” I gasp. “Colt, I’m so close—”

“Come on my cock, Hallie.” His voice is rough, broken. “Let me feel it.”