Page 66 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"Tell me what you need."
"Your mouth. I need your mouth."
He kisses down my body—over my ribs, across my stomach, along my hip bone. When he settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my center, I nearly come undone from anticipation alone.
The first touch of his tongue makes me cry out. He works me with focused intensity, alternating between broad strokes and targeted pressure. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as I writhe beneath him. The pleasure builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.
When he slides two fingers inside me, curling to hit that perfect spot while his tongue continues its assault, I shatter. The orgasm rips through me, every nerve ending firing at once. I'm distantly aware of crying his name, of my fingers tangling in his hair, of the tremors that shake my entire body.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thigh. When I can breathe again, I pull him up for a kiss that tastes like salt and sex and us.
"My turn," I say, pushing him onto his back.
I explore his body the way he explored mine—hands and mouth learning every scar, every line of muscle, every place that makes him gasp. The shrapnel damage across his ribs, rough under my fingertips. The old bullet wound near his collarbone, smooth and puckered. The burns on his forearm, textured and pale.
When I wrap my hand around his length, hot and hard and thick, he groans. I stroke him slowly, watching his face as pleasure tightens his features. Pre-come beads at the tip and Ilean down to taste it, my tongue circling the head before taking him deeper.
"Fuck, Sierra." His hands fist in the sheets.
I take my time, using my hand and mouth together, learning what makes him curse and what makes him beg. The taste of him fills my mouth—salt and musk and something uniquely Chris. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts he can't control.
"Stop. I'm going to?—"
I don't stop. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using my throat. When he comes with a shout, I swallow everything he gives me, working him through the aftershocks until he's gasping.
I crawl up his body, kiss him so he can taste himself on my lips. His arms come around me, holding me close.
"Give me a minute," he says. "Then I want inside you."
While we wait, we kiss. Long, languid kisses that build heat slowly. His hands roam my body, relearning curves and valleys. My fingers trace patterns on his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my palm.
When he's hard again, I straddle his hips. He grips my waist as I position myself above him, then sink down slowly. The stretch is delicious, the fullness perfect. We both groan at the sensation.
I set a rolling pace, rising and falling with increasing speed. His hands guide my movements, his hips rising to meet me. The friction is exquisite, each stroke hitting deeper than the last. Sweat slicks our skin, the scent of sex heavy in the small room.
Chris sits up, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle. Now I'm grinding against him with each movement, the pressure against my center making stars burst behind my eyelids.
"That's it," he encourages, one hand sliding between us to circle where we're joined. "Let go."
The combination of his cock filling me and his fingers working my center pushes me over the edge again. My inner muscles clamp down on him, rhythmic pulses that drag him with me. He buries his face in my neck, his release pouring into me as we shake together.
We stay connected, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air. His hands stroke my back while my fingers thread through his hair.
"I love you," he says.
The words should scare me. Two weeks isn't long enough to know someone, to trust them with everything. But my body already knows his, my heart already chose.
"I love you too."
We clean up in the tiny bathroom, then crawl back into bed, our limbs tangling naturally. Chris pulls the covers over us, wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Sleep," he murmurs against my hair.
I drift off to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my ear.
Morning comes with weak sunlight through the window and the smell of coffee. I wake to find Chris standing beside the bed, two mugs in hand, wearing jeans and nothing else.
"Morning," he says, handing me a mug.
