Page 17 of Frosty in Flannel
She watched every move I made with hunger in those beautiful eyes. I’d never had a woman look at me like that. And I was fucking glad it was her. I stood there for a second—ribs tight, old scars on full display, the burn down my side feeling as raw and exposed as the day it had happened. Even though she’d seenthem in the barn, I waited for her to look away. She didn’t. She reached for me.
“You’re beautiful,” she said, voice steady.
No one had ever said that to me. Not before. Not after.
Her hands moved to my chest, fingers tracing the scars that twisted across my side. I tensed without meaning to. She looked at me with those clear blue eyes. “Does it hurt?”
“No. Not any more.”
“Good.” She raised her head and kissed the worst of the scarring, right where it crossed by collarbone. “Because I plan on touching you everywhere.”
Fuck.
I groaned and captured her mouth again. Hard, possessive, demanding.
“Damn it,” I murmured. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
She laughed softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is. Beautiful things are meant to be admired from afar or handled with care. I can’t do either.”
“Liar. I’ve seen you do that with Wildfire. With the mare. With all the horses.” She kissed the scars on my forearm. “With me.”
My fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, making her meet my gaze. “I need you to understand something,” I said, as I looked down at her. “I haven’t done this in a long time. And I’m not—I’m not good at the gentle shit. The sweet talk.”
“I don’t want gentle.” Her fingers traced my jaw. “I want you. However, you are. Don’t be careful with me.”
She reached down and wrapped her hand around my cock, and I felt that same flash of fire I’d felt when I was burned. Hot. Intense. Burning away everything else but what mattered. Then, my will to live. To survive.
Now, the need to possess Libby. Take her. Make her mine. Despite everything. Despite myself.
This time, the heat fucking destroyed me.
“Spread your legs,” I ordered.
She obeyed without hesitation, and the trust in that—the way she just opened for me—nearly undid me.
I pushed inside her in one slow, steady stroke—tight, wet heat surrounding me, gripping me so fucking good I nearly came on the spot. “Libby,” I grunted. “You feel like warm rain.”
She wrapped her legs around me, begging for more. And I gave it to her.
I started out slow. Well, as slow as I could, dragging my cock almost all the way out before pushing back in deeper and harder than the last thrust. She dug her nails into my shoulders like she needed something to hold onto.
“Beckett—please—harder—”
I gritted my teeth, grabbed her hips, and gave her what she wanted. Fucked her harder, faster, until the bed shook and her cries turned into groaned screams.
“This what you wanted?” I pulled out and slammed back in. “Wanted me to fuck you?”
She nodded wildly. “Yes—yes, I need this—I need you—”
I set a brutal pace, driven by weeks of pent-up need and want. She took every thrust, her pussy gripping me like a fist, her cries growing louder with each stroke. My cock growing harder. From the feel of her wet heat around me, the way she looked—flushed, fucked-out, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her mouth red from my kisses. The way she gave herself to me completely.
Trusting. Vulnerable.
Like she knew I’d never hurt her.
I couldn’t stop.
