Page 96 of Bloom

The hand not driving me to the brink of insanity comes to rest just above my collarbones, ever so slightly bracketing the base of my throat. His nose drags over my cheek, inhaling deeply, exhaling heavily.

“Tell me what you like,” he demands yet pleads at the same time.

I writhe in his grip, a whimper catching in my throat when his fingers drift somewhere I definitely,definitelylike. “I don't know.”

Hunter stills. Repeats, “You don't know.”

Shaking my head jerkily, I whine and buck my hips, seeking some friction, trying to coax him into moving, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he retreats, one hand flattening against my pelvis to hold me still while the other tilts my face towards him. “Are you a virgin, honey?”

I shake my head. But I might as well be; my only experience wasn’t the most… adventurous. We had sex, sure. But not very often, since privacy was kind of hard to come by. And we didn’t experiment like some of the other people in our class bragged about doing because I was too scared, too self-conscious, and Jackson never pushed for anything more. He didn’t want anything more. Or at least not with me.

When I mutter a watered-down version of that, the chest at my back rumbles with an unimpressed noise. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” Hunter scoffs, that damn hand diving between my thighs again, catching me off guard when he cups me roughly, practically lifting me off the ground. “Four years and he never bothered to figure out what you like?”

I should protest that it wasn’t his fault—that I never bothered to figure it out for myself either. That I always felt too awkward, too unsure, too self-conscious. But I’m incapable of forming any words, what with sure, capable fingers grazing bare, wet flesh and setting every inch of me alight.

He brushes my clit lightly, testingly, and I shiver at the pleasant fluttering sensation in my belly. The pressure intensifies, his thumb pressing down hard, and my hips eagerly rise to meet the movement as a mortifyingly loud moan rips from my throat, echoed by Hunter's deep chuckle.

“See?” God, he’s the epitome of smug. “Easy.”

I moan some more, loud and uninhibited, unable to help myself because I like this. Ireallyfreaking like this. Slow but hard circles of his thumb, low whispers in my ear, his heartbeat thrumming against my back and his pulse beating against myforehead when I twist to bury my face in his neck, seeking refuge from his ceaseless gaze.

“Atta girl,” he praises, kissing whatever part of me he can reach. “Nice and loud, honey. Tell me.”

No matter how hard I try to be quiet, my vocal cords—myinstincts—work against me, and every moan, every whine, only seems to make Hunter hungry for more. More and more and more, faster and faster and faster, harder and harder and harder until the taut coil building in my belly is almost unbearable. When one thick finger dips inside me, a perfectly tight fit, I feel like I might shatter—when a throaty voice murmurs in my ear, I almost do. “You think you can handle more?”

I’m not entirely sure, considering I’ve seen the size of those fingers, considering I canfeelthe size of just one. But I think I need it—I think I cry out a desperateyesbefore the question fully leaves his mouth.

“I know you can,” he croons, chuckling low and deep as he proves both of us right, stretching me so wide, I can barely breathe, can hardly think, can’t do anything but make needy noises and grind against his hand and wonder how the hell I’ve gone twenty-two years without feeling thisgood.

“Perfect.” The hips behind me thrust, grinding a hard bulge against my lower back, the single hissed word followed by a string of colorful curses. “You feel fuckin’ perfect, Caroline.”

My hands find their way to his hair, clutching desperately as my back arches. My chest rises and falls dramatically, my heart beating dangerously fast and my head, my entire freaking body, feeling seconds away from exploding. “So do you.”

Groaning a laugh, Hunter nips at my arm. “More?”

“Yes, please.”

“So polite,” he teases, but he obliges. There’s the tiniest sting as I adjust to the sheer girth of three fingers, unsure how they’re even fitting, but it doesn’t take long for any pain to be completelyobliterated by the wave of sheer pleasure that almost knocks me out when they curl, and the pads brush a particularly sensitive spot—and thrust and thrust and thrust against it until my legs shake, until honest to God tears are tacking down my cheeks.

“Fuck, baby, I wish I could see.” Somehow, I manage to crank my neck enough to see Hunter watching the spot between my legs where his hand disappears, his view obscured by my shirt. “Wish I could see that pretty pussy ridin’ my hand,soakin’it. Wish I could see you stretched tight.Fuck.”

The last word, he shouts when I clamp down around him, the deep timbre of his voice proving to be my undoing as the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced hits me like a freaking truck.

Ears ringing. Back arching. Abdomen aching. Mouth agape with a silent scream. Entire body quivering uncontrollably. Sweet, whispered praise hot against my sensitive skin. So much pleasure, I feel greedy experiencing it all.

I don’t know how long passes before the shaking stops. I just know that when it does, when I slump, exhausted, against Hunter’s chest, he cradles me gently. Lips pepper kisses against whatever bare skin he can reach. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs again and again, and I soar a little higher each time.

Again, I’m not sure how long it takes my mind to clear. For the husky voice in my ear to stop being the only thing that exists. For reality to sink in. But all at once, I realize I’m half-naked. In an old, infested barn. With an equine audience grazing in the corner, and a man with his fingers still inside of me.

I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, the burst of nervous laughter that abruptly escapes me is far superior to, say, a river of tears. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“You didn’t do anythin’.” The smuggest man in Haven Ridge removes his freaking fingers from my freaking vagina, and I think I actually die for a second at the audible sound they make.I think I die again when he raises them to his mouth and licks them clean, and I definitely score some kind of death hat-trick when he groans a deeply satisfied noise.

Jesus.

“Don’t.” A tug on my braid angles my face just right for Hunter to look me square in the eye. “Don’t ruin it. Stay out of your head, honey.”

“I’m trying.” The words come out croaky and hoarse, and those pretty eyes flash with pure male pride. Remembering something else purely male, I shift onto my hip, and try not to gape at his crotch. “Do you, uh…” I’m bright red, but then again, I probably have been for a while now. “Need help?”

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