Page 45 of Broken Cedar

I turn toward him. I don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of us does. His mouth finds mine. The kiss is slow. Hazy. Like being caught in a dream you don’t want to wake from. His mouth is soft as he kisses me, lingering, taking his time. I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer.

His body shifts to face me, and the hard ridge of his cock presses against the small of my stomach, pressing through the cotton of his boxers. My stomach tightens. My hips push forward, seeking the pressure, and the sound he makes—that low, rough groan muffled into his pillow—is all the permission I need.

I roll onto my back, and pull him with me. His weight settles over me, his hips slotting between my thighs. He kisses me slowly. His mouth is warm, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips like he’s memorizing something he expects to need later.

“I could do this with you forever,” I murmur, shifting my hips forward, pressing myself into his hardness. “Not going anywhere, just…just….this. Forever.”

The thought is so tempting, so tantalizing. Spending every day, every night with Colt, taking my time enjoying him.

“So could I.” His lips trace the column of my neck, nibbling at the delicate skin of my throat.

“Mmmm,” I hum softly, as he trails kisses down my neck, over my collarbone. My t-shirt comes off in between kisses.

Then he trails kisses to the flat plane between my breasts, his tongue tracing the underside of each one before he takes a nipple between his teeth, and the sharp pleasure of it draws a gasp from somewhere low in my chest. His hand slides down my stomach. Cups me through my underwear, feeling how wet I am, how ready, and the sound he makes is almost as good as the touch itself.

He moves lower. Kisses my ribs. The dip of my navel. The soft skin of my hip where it meets my thigh. Then his mouth is between my legs, kissing my clit through the cotton of my panties.

“God,” I breathe.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down. Then his mouth is on me, his tongue circling my clit. He licks slow. Lazy. Listening to every moan that falls from my lips, every small gasp as my orgasm builds, adjusting his pressure and his pace based on sounds I’m not even aware I’m making.

“Colt,” I murmur, my fingers raking through his hair.

My breath comes faster. My thighs tremble. I’m beyond soaking wet—he can taste it, must be tasting it, the particular salt-musk of me that belongs exclusively to this man. He drinks me down. Every drop. Like he’s dying of thirst and I’m the only water for miles.

I’m close. So close. My hips rocking against his mouth, my hand in his hair holding him where I need him, the pleasure coiling tight in my lower belly, building toward something that feels less like release and more like surrender.

Before I can finish, he abruptly pulls away and rises to his knees. He brings my legs together and rolls us to the side—my back to his chest, his cock nudging against me from behind, his hand reaching between my thighs to stroke me, to keep me on the edge, his cock thick and hard against my ass—has me whimpering, my head falling back against his shoulder.

“Colt,” I gasp. “Please.”

“You need my cock, don’t you baby,” he says, rubbing his length through my wetness. My hips rock back and forth in rhythm with his as he continues to rub himself against me.

“Please Colt,” I beg, not caring how desperate I sound. “I need your cock inside me.”

He pushes into me in one slow, relentless stroke that has my mouth falling open on a silent cry. The angle is perfect—my legs together, his cock filling me from behind, every inch of him reaching places that make coherent thought nearly impossible. He withdraws almost to the tip. Slams back in. Withdraws. Slams. The rhythm is deliberate, each thrust driving me closer to the edge until I’m trembling and clutching at the sheets.

“Colt,” I gasp. “I’m going to—oh God, I’m going to—”

His hand clamps over my mouth, reminding me that Mom’s down the hall. The thought of my mother lying twenty feet away while we fuck like teenagers in the dark should kill the mood. It does the opposite. The particular wrongness of it makes everything feel more intense, and pushes me over. My orgasm crashes through me in a wave that starts in my toes and doesn’t stop until it’s reached every cell in my body, my hips bucking against him, my cry muffled against his palm as my pussy clamps around his cock.

His rhythm falters. His hips stutter. A groan tears from his throat and I feel him come inside me, his cock pulsing, his hand still over my mouth, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades as he empties himself with a final, shuddering thrust.

We lie there, breathing heavily, his cock still inside me, the aftershocks rolling through me in waves that don’t seem to end. Slowly, carefully, he removes his hand from my mouth. I draw a ragged breath. Then another. My heart is still hammering.

He withdraws slowly. I don’t move. Can’t move. My body feels drained. Colt rolls onto his back. His breathing is still ragged. In the half-dark, his eyes find mine, and what I see there—what I have maybe been seeing all along and haven’t been brave enough to name—is tenderness.

I reach out and stroke his cheek. His stubble is rough under my palm. He turns his face into my hand and kisses my wrist. A gesture so gentle it makes my chest ache. He moves closer and kisses me. His mouth is soft as he nibbles at my lower lip and plants small kisses along my jaw, my throat, the hollow beneath my ear that makes me shiver every time.

I wrap my arms around him, and pull him closer. I settle against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His hand finds my shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone. I close my eyes and let myself be held.

He falls asleep first. His breathing slows, evens out. His arm settles around my waist, heavy and warm. I lie awake. His heartbeat against my cheek. The moon through the window painting the wall in silver. Colt shifts in his sleep and mumbles something unintelligible, his arm tightening around me.

I have two days before I’m supposed to go back to reality. Two days before I have to decide whether the life I built is the life I want, or simply the life I got very good at defending. And two days before I have to answer the question I’ve been avoiding since I arrived. Not whether I love Colt. I know that. I guess the question is, what happens if I finally stop running from it?

Chapter Twelve

Iwake to warmth. Early morning light filters through the curtains, pale and thin, early enough that the birds are still figuring out their day.