Page 36 of Broken Cedar

“What were you proving?” He asks eventually.

“That I made the right choice in leaving. That I didn’t need…this. That wanting to stay would have been…I don’t know. Weak, maybe. The easy choice.”

“Staying’s never been easy,” he says.

I look at him. At the lines around his eyes that weren’t there when I left. At the hands that have built and fixed and held together everything I walked away from. At the choice he made to give up what he wanted, to ensure that his father’s legacy lived on.

“No,” I say, looking away from him and back at the view. “I guess it hasn’t.”

The conversation fades naturally after that. Neither of us seems eager to force another one. The wind rustles through the juniper overhead. A pair of swallows dive across the valley below, disappearing into the blue. I lie back, folding one arm beneath my head. The clouds drift lazily overhead.

“That one looks like a horse,” I say, pointing.

Colt squints, following my gaze. “It looks like a potato.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It has potato energy,” he says, laying down beside me.

I laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.” He shifts closer, until our bodies are touching, so naturally it feels less like a decision and more like gravity.

His mouth finds mine, and it starts gentle, almost careful. Then his hand is in my hair, cupping the back of my head, and the kiss deepens, and careful is the last thing on either of our minds. His tongue presses against mine. The scratch of his stubble against my chin.

Colt shifts, and his weight settles over me. His hips press against mine. I can feel him hard through his jeans, the thick ridge of his cock grinding against me where I’m already wet, already aching, my body responding to him the way it always has—immediately, completely, without the courtesy of consulting my brain first.

“God,” I murmur against his mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

His answer is another kiss, deeper this time, his hand sliding under my shirt to palm my breast through my bra. My hips roll against his, seeking friction, and he answers by grinding back, the denim between us rough and maddening and not nearly enough.

We undress slowly between kisses, taking our time. I push his shirt up his chest, break the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head, and then my mouth is on his skin, on his chest, on the flat plane of his stomach where muscle tenses under my tongue. He tastes like sun and sweat and something uniquely Colt, a scent I could pick out blindfolded in a crowd of a thousand men. His hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it off. My bra follows. Then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue circling my nipple before he takes it between his teeth, and the sharp pleasure of it has me gasping, my hand flying to his hair, holding him there. “Fuck, Colt.”

He moves to my other breast and gives it the same attention. Meanwhile his hand is working my jeans open, popping the button, sliding the zipper down. I kick them off. He shucks off his.

“Please,” I breathe, not specifying what. He knows. He’s always known.

Colt hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear and slides them down my thighs. Then his mouth is between my legs, and the first flat stroke of his tongue against my clit has me crying out, my back arching off the blanket, my hands finding his hair and holding on. He licks, his tongue circling my clit as his thumb finds my entrance and pushes inside, stretching me.

“God” I gasp. “That feels so fucking good.”

He adds a second finger and curls them. Finds that spot inside that makes my vision blur. Then he moves his thumb to my clit, rubbing in slow circles. I clutch at the blanket, my hips rocking against his face, my breath coming in short, hard gasps.

“M-more,” I grit out. “God. I need more.”

His mouth lifts. His fingers still inside me, his thumb still on my clit, and he looks up the length of my body with eyes gone dark and hungry. “What do you need? I want you to use your words, and tell me what you need.”

Nobody has ever made me name what I want with such direct, unwavering attention. I choke out another sob-like moan, pushing my hips back on his fingers.

“I-I…” I draw in a hard breath, frustration and want tangling in my throat. “I need to come.”

“Do you want my mouth, or my cock?”

My pussy clenches around his fingers at the word. Cock. His cock. Thick and hard and mine if I ask for it. “I-I want your cock. Please. I need it.”

“I know you do, baby.” His voice has gone rough, tender and filthy all at once. “No one can make you come like I can, can they?”

My nipples pebble at his words, at seeing this entirely different side to him. “No.” The admission tears from me, honest and desperate. God, I love hearing him talk to me like this.