Page 23 of Broken Cedar

“What do you want me to do to you, Hallie?” he asks. The question lands like a match dropped on dry grass.

“Anything,” I breathe. “Everything.”

His hands tighten. Then he lifts me, and sets me down on the kitchen table. The same table where we just ate breakfast.

Colt stands between my legs. His eyes travel down my body, and then his hands are at the button of my jeans. He pops it open. Slides the zipper down. His knuckles brush against my stomach, and I suck in a breath.

“These need to go,” he murmurs. I lift my hips obediently. He pulls my jeans down my thighs, past my knees, off my ankles. My panties follow, and then I’m bare from the waist down, spread on my mother’s kitchen table in the morning light, and Colt is staring.

“Fuck, Hallie.” His voice has gone dark. Hungry. “You’re glistening.”

I am. I can feel it. Slick between my thighs, swollen, aching. I’ve been wet since I walked into the kitchen and saw his back. Since I smelled coffee and bacon and him.

He runs a finger along my inner thigh, and the touch is so light it’s almost not there. My skin prickles. My hips shift, seeking more contact, and Colt notices.

“Your pussy is so fucking pretty, Hallie,” he says, drinking in the sight of me. The words come out like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep.

Nobody has ever talked about my body like this. Like it’s something to be admired. Like it’s worth looking at. Colt bends. His mouth finds the inside of my thigh first—a kiss, soft, almost reverent—then another a inch higher. Another. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin, and I shiver. His finger strays over my clit, a feather-light circle, and my nerves ignite. My head falls back, a moan escaping me before I can stop myself.

“God,” I breathe.

“You like that?” He asks. His finger circles again. Slower this time, more deliberate.

“Y-yes,” I say, but it comes out breathy.

He nods, and pushes one finger inside me, gentle, careful not to hurt. I’m tight, clenching around him already. My hand flies to my mouth, pressing against my lips to muffle the sound building in my throat.

Colt looks up and his finger stills inside me. “Your Mom’s not here,” he says. “You don’t need to be quiet.”

“Right.” I drop my hand and let it fall to the table beside my hip.

“You can scream as loud as you want,” he says, as he adds a second finger.

The stretch is perfect—just enough to burn, just enough to make my back arch. He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside that makes me clench around him, and I do scream. Or something close to it. A sound I didn’t know I could make.

“That’s it,” Colt murmurs. His free hand braced against my thigh, holding me open. “Let me hear you.”

His fingers work deeper. Faster. His thumb finds my clit, rubbing in counterpoint, and it has me gripping the edge of the table, my hips lifting off the wood. Then his mouth is there, closing over my clit, sucking. I buck so hard I nearly knee him in the face.

“Colt.” My hand shoots into his hair, grabbing fistfuls, holding on. “Oh, oh my god.”

His tongue replaces his thumb on my clit. Circling. Flicking. Sucking. My thighs shake. My breath comes in hitches. I want his cock. I want it inside me the second I come, want to feel him filling me while I’m still pulsing, still sensitive. The thought alone is enough to push me closer.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

Colt licks like a man who’s been starving. His tongue flat against my clit, then pointed, then circling. His fingers curl and press and stretch. And then my orgasm crashes through me like a wave breaking, and I’m crying out, saying his name, my fingers sinking into his hair, my body shaking, my breath escaping in short, hard gasps.

“Oh my god,” I moan. “Oh, oh my fucking god.”

He doesn’t stop. He licks me through it, gentler now, until the clench of my thighs tells him I’m too sensitive to take anymore. Then he kisses my inner thighs—once, twice—and stands.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the room settle around me. When I open them again, his jeans are open. His cock is in his hand, hard and leaking. He squeezes himself, once, and a bead of moisture forms on the tip.

“Fuck, I need to be inside you,” he mutters, leaning over me, nudging himself against my entrance. At this angle, I feel tighter than I’ve ever felt. I gasp as he pushes in, the stretch burning in the best way, another shaky breath passing my lips.

“Am I hurting you?” Colt asks. His voice is strained. His forehead pressed against mine.

I shake my head. “No. I want more.”