Page 63 of The Sharpest Edges

“I think they feel the same about you,” she says into the space between them, which is minuscule by now, her breath warm on his lips and her nose nudging the side of his.

His palms find her hips, holding there while he ghosts his mouth over hers in a whisper-soft kiss. Before he knows it, she’s got both arms wrapped around his neck and one leg curling around his thigh, her back pressing against the door and her hips tilting into his. He has to stop before he tries to take this further right here. The urge to turn her around and tug her jeans down far enough to give him better access lights a blaze in his veins.

He doesn’t want to chance it though, especially not after what happened on the sofa. Fucking her up against the door is the type of thing she needs to prompt herself.

“Can you stay tonight?” he asks, resting his forehead on hers.

When she replies, it’s teasing, like he’s only now catching up. “That’s the plan.”

“Got new sheets and a new bed. Lets try ‘em out upstairs?”

“I’m more than ready for a tour.”

They leave a trail of clothes like breadcrumbs from the door to the bedroom before collapsing onto the soft new mattress, the sheets caressing their skin like butter. When he lays back against the pillows, trying and failing to urge her over him so she can be on top, she doesn’t go easily and he balks.

He feels obscene now, with his dick jutting out and no naked woman to cover it so he sits back up, resisting the urge to cover himself and reaching for her instead, letting his mouth find the side of her neck and one large, calloused palm wrap around her waist. “You don’t like it like that?”

“It isn’t that. I just haven’t before. I was always…” Shame blushes her cheeks. “Bent over or on my back. Always. I dunno what I’m doing like this.”

“Do you want to?” If she refuses, he’ll let it go, encourage her backward and cover her with his body, make love to her in a way they’re both getting more comfortable with each time it happens.

She considers it, biting her lower lip, and offering him a nod of agreement.

He doesn’t have much experience like this either, only that one time in his truck, but his part in this is simple and he lays back against the pillows again, welcoming her onto his lapwhen she straddles him.

They move together in a mess of random touches and gentle kisses until he feels her warmth coating the underside of him as she rubs herself over the shaft.

He has to force himself to be still and let her set the pace. It’s difficult because all he wants right now is to feel her wrapped around him, but somehow he manages to keep his hands on her waist light and his hips unmoving.

When she grips the base of him and begins to lower herself downward agonizingly slow all the air escapes his lungs. He is mesmerized by the sight of her as she tries to adjust to this new feeling, a crease forms on her brow as she takes all of him inside and rests her weight on him.

“Fuck.” It’s all he can manage to get out while his thumbs rub circles into the dip of her hips.

She shifts carefully in a way that makes his nerves tingle, her body quivering, holding him snug and deep. “It’s…I don’t know…it’s different. It’s a lot. The pressure is intense.”

He’s about to tell her they can stop if it’s too much, but then she moves again, rolling her hips in an experimental stroke, leaning forward to rest her hands on his chest. He swears he can see her eyes roll back.

“Oh my god,” she gasps.

That’s the last thing she says, and he’s fine with that because words are overrated anyway and when she’s moving on him like this, rolling and deep, hugging the length of him in a vice grip, all he can focus on is how she feels. All he can see is the confidence growing in her with every passing second, the way she’s begun to chase her own pleasure, riding him with heightened desperation.

When she leans down far enough to kiss him, he pushes upinto her, using the new angle as an advantage and doing some of the work. She groans into his mouth, grinding down on him.

“Faster,” she begs, bracing on her knees, holding herself still so he has room to thrust below her.

The sound of her words shoots right down to the tip of him buried inside of her in welcome encouragement and soon he’s pumping in and out of her, skin slapping against skin, her breasts shaking as her body moves.

When she clenches around him in harsh spasms, it’s the first time she’s gotten there without him touching her in other ways. The first time she’s rolled through the trembles with such intensity that it rips his own release from him before he consciously allows it to happen, her muscles squeezing him in fierce waves until he’s spent and still.

She collapses on top of him, her head resting over his heart and her legs still straddling his thighs. She doesn’t move him out of her and he doesn’t either, preferring to stay joined together as long as he’s allowed.

“We’ll have to christen the rest of these rooms soon, too,” she says.

He only grunts his agreement, too tired and sated to speak.

The silence that follows is comfortable and easy, allowing him to think about how different things are now compared to when he’d first met her, shackled and bleeding and shoved into the infirmary. Alone in every sense of the word.

Now, he has been given a gift. Everything that’s happened in the last six months has led him here, to this moment, with her. Offering him the option of following a new path with someone he loves.

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