Page 162 of Lost Then Found
Chest, abs, shoulders—all of him carved and solid and golden in the slant of light coming through the upper window. His belt comes next, then the denim drops, pooling around his ankles.
The outline of him under his briefs is impossible to ignore—hard, straining, ready.
I don’t wait. I sink to my knees and drag them down, my breath catchingas his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already hard. My hand wraps around him, instinctive, fingers barely closing at the base.
“Fuck, Lark…” His voice is low. Strained. One hand fists in my hair, the other bracing against the edge of the loft like he needs something to hold on to.
I run my thumb over the head, slow and filthy, smearing the bead of pre-cum until his hips twitch into my hand.
“You miss this?” I ask quietly, still stroking him. “The way I touch you like you’re mine?”
His eyes snap shut. “Iamyours.”
I don’t say anything else.
I just lower my mouth to him and take him in—slow, deep, unhurried. My tongue traces the underside, my lips tightening around him as I move. I feel his whole body tense, hear the way his breath cuts short in his throat.
“I think about this every night,” he says, breath uneven, voice rough. “Laying in the dark, my fist wrapped around my dick, stroking it slow—pretending it’s your mouth.”
I suck harder, dragging him deeper, and feel his whole body seize for a second—like he’s on the edge and barely holding on.
“I never last long when I think about you like this,” he admits. “I always come fast. Too fast. And it never fucking compares.”
He tries to keep the rhythm steady, but I feel the tension in him, the way his muscles flex beneath my palms, the way his breath shortens with every slick glide of my mouth. He’s close already, I can tell. He’s trying not to be.
“Shit—fuck,” he breathes, his grip tightening like he’s about to pull away but can’t bring himself to.
I don’t let him pull away. Instead, I press forward, taking him deeper, pushing until he hits the back of my throat, my eyes stinging as I breathe through my nose and hold him there. His body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight, and I feel it—the way he’s shaking, barely keeping it together, barely hanging on.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, “you’re gonna make me lose it.”
I pull back just a little, lips wet, jaw aching in the best way. My hand wraps around him, stroking slow, watching the way his chest rises and falls like he’s outrunning something only I can name. His eyes stay on me, dark and desperate.
“You like that?” I ask, taunting, dragging my thumb along the head of his cock, feeling the way it twitches under my touch. “You like hitting the back of my throat, don’t you?”
He groans, low and broken, the sound ripping from his throat.
God, the way I love him like this. Unraveled. Breath uneven, jaw slack, every careful thread of control slipping through his fingers—and he lets it. For me.
Boone’s always been the steady one. The calm in every storm. All quiet strength and unshakable presence. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break. But right now? He’s ruined. His need isn’t quiet or polite. It’s loud. Messy. Honest. And all of it is mine.
It’s muscle memory—the way he touches me, the way I open for him. Takes me back to high school, when we were sixteen and reckless with each other, always reaching, always needing. Mornings before school when I’d slide into his truck, and before he could even say hello, I was in his lap, pulling his zipper down. My mouth on him, his hand in my hair, steering with the other like nothing else in the world mattered but getting off and getting there.
We made a religion out of backseats and barns. Behind the hay bales, dirt in our lungs, my knees raw from gravel and want. The scent of hay and sweat and him everywhere. I lived for it. For how he came apart when I touched him.
“Say my name,” I whisper, my mouth grazing over him, my tongue teasing. “Say it, Boone. Tell me who’s on her knees for you.”
His head falls back, a curse torn from his throat, rough and desperate. That jaw—clenched so tight it could snap. The sound he makes isn’t even human. It’s a growl, a surrender, a plea.
“Lark,” he grits out. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
And God, I hope I do.
His whole body jerks, his hips starting to lose rhythm, control slipping fast.
“Fuck—shit—I’m not gonna last.”
I don’t let up. If anything, I work him harder. Mouth and hand in sync, slick and steady, until he’s barely breathing, eyes clenched shut like he’s hanging on by a thread.
