Page 117 of Broken Trails
My stomach plunges. “Jesus,” I whisper.
“Not Jesus, Freckles. It’ll be my name you’re screaming out,” he rasps, and strides through the living room, every step sending heat licking up my spine. The bedroom door bangs open, and the room is lit only by the glow of a distant streetlight outside.
Michael lays me down like I’m something precious. His mouth finds mine again, and I grind myself into him, needing more friction. He makes a sound in the back of his throat—part groan, part growl—before tugging my jumper over my head. My pants soon follow, exposing my body to the cool night air and his burning gaze. His palms trace down my ribcage, reverent and unhurried.
“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “Been driving me insane since the day you rocked up with those smartass comebacks and that little fucking sundress.”
I arch beneath him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. He lifts it off in one smooth motion, and quickly, heat meets heat. Suddenly, we’re notundressing. We’redevouring.
The rest of our clothes come off in a blur—fingers fumbling, mouths greedy. He pauses only to kiss down my chest, over the swell of my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth and making me gasp. My hands claw at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can hold onto.
When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, he drags his thumb along my bottom lip. “I need to taste you again.” Dipping lower, he drags his tongue down the centre of my stomach, across my hipbone, pausing only to mouth at the inside of my thigh. My breath hitches, thighs instinctively parting as he settles between them. I jolt at the first flick of his tongue againstmy seam. The metal of his piercing presses perfectly against my clit, sending sparks ricocheting through me.
“Oh, fuck.”
He groans against me, tongue plunging deep inside for a few languid strokes. Just enough to tease. To destroy. My hips lift off the bed, chasing more, but he pulls back far too soon.
He stands. One hand grips the waistband of his briefs, before he pulls them down in one smooth, fluid motion. At the sight of him naked, my eyes nearly pop out of my head.
How he hidesthatin his jeans, I have no idea. It’s not just big—it’s thick. Built. Intimidating in the most mouth-watering way.
Nope. That’s not a cock. That’s a problem. A beautiful, veiny, life-altering problem.
He strokes it once, twice—slowly, arrogantly—his smirk downright dangerous. “This is what you do to me.”
I blink at him, parting my lips on an exhale. I want to answer. Truly, I do. But I don’t know what to say. He watches me with an unreadable expression. “Zoe, I need to know if this is what you want?”
My body answers before my mind can. A shudder rolls through me, nipples tightening, thighs clenching. But still, I don’t speak. Because the question isn’t just about sex. It’s about everything. It’s about letting him in. And that terrifies me.
“There’s no going back to being friends after this, Zoe.” I stiffen, my breath catching painfully in my throat. He lowers himself again, bracing his weight above me, brushing the backs of his fingers over my jaw. “Do you understand me? I need your words.” His voice is soft now. “Once I fuck you, you’re mine.”
My heart stutters, and my body locks up beneath him. He must feel it, and to his credit, he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with empty promises. He just keeps talking. “I’m not him.” His tone is gentle but firm. “I’d never control you. Never raise a hand to you.”
I’m blinking fast, trying to keep my emotions at bay.
He leans down, his mouth brushing mine. “Unless you’re into it…” A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Then I’d happily oblige.”
A strangled laugh bursts from me. It’s unexpected, and shakes through my chest like a hiccup.
God, this man.
“You and I will always be equals. You’re not mine toown.” He pulls back slightly. “But you are mine to worship. You’re mine to fucking devour.”
My entire body clenches. No one’s ever spoken to me like this. No one’s ever seen me like this. Not Liam. Not anyone. And I feel it in every single nerve ending. Never, and I mean,never, have I been this emotionally and physically attracted to someone.
And it’s not just about what he looks like.
It’s who he is.
The way he watches me like I’m made of gold. The way he speaks to me with heat and reverence tangled into every syllable. The way he doesn’t demand. I get to decide. My pussy pulses—painfully—desperate for relief.
“Michael, please—”
He kisses me, slow and deep, before reaching for his jeans. Fishing out his wallet, he plucks a condom from the folds, rips the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it down his length in one practised motion.
“Fuck,” I whisper, eyes locked on the way his hand wraps around his thick shaft, and he chuckles.
“What’s the matter, Freckles?” He nudges my knee aside, lining himself up. “You worried I won’t fit?”
