Page 60 of That Moment
He slides a hand between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, and I nearly collapse. He works me in perfect rhythm with his thrusts that are rough, precise, and relentless. His cocky confessions fill the air around us, proving all of my assumptions that I was immune to his antics wrong.
“Scotty—oh, God?—”
“That’s it,” he whispers against my neck, his breath hot. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel it.”
The words break me open. I fall apart, shaking, crying out as my release crashes through me, white-hot and violent. Hecurses, a raw, broken sound, and follows me over the edge, grinding deep until every last shudder fades into silence.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Just the sound of our breathing, the creak of the boards, the faint sizzle from the forgotten grill.
He pulls out slowly, steadying me when my knees buckle. I expect him to step back, to put distance between us, but instead, he bends down and presses a soft kiss to the back of my neck.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, still trembling. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He kisses me again, a little lower, then straightens. “Stay right there.”
I’m still bent over the table, trembling and trying to catch my breath, when I hear him move behind me. A moment later, his hands are on me again, sliding up my sides, pulling me back against him while he drags his shirt I was wearing between my legs.
I can feel him, still warm and hard, pressing against the curve of my ass, but this time it’s not about taking. It’s slower. Calmer. His mouth finds my shoulder, where he kisses me softly.
He kisses a line up to my neck, murmuring into my skin, “You okay?”
I nod, turning just enough that he can see my face. “Yeah,” I whisper. “You?”
He smiles. “Never better.”
We stand like that for a minute, neither of us talking, just the sound of the wind through the trees and the steady thump of my heartbeat against his chest.
Then he turns me around, hands resting on my hips, his gaze tracing every inch of me. He runs a thumb along my jaw, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You should see yourself right now.”
“Why?” I ask, nervously.
“Because you look breathtaking,” he says before pressing his mouth to mine. “You look… content. Satisfied?” I nod. “Or did you want more?”
“Want more? Yes. Can I handle more?” I laugh and shake my head. He leans in again, his lips brushing against mine.
“I’d give you more all night if you could handle it.”
The kiss starts soft, then deepens. There’s no rush this time. No fight for control. Just the easy, molten slide of his mouth against mine, kissing me like he’s studied how I like to be kissed. And suddenly I get that uncomfortable feeling in my belly again at the thought that Scotty Bescher knows how to kiss because he’s kissed half of this damn town.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I think you wrecked me, Adrienne Slade,” he says quietly.
I laugh a little, even though my voice shakes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He smiles against my lips. “Not even close.”
For a long moment, I let myself stay there in his arms, body humming, every part of me still tuned to his. This moment feels different. And maybe he feels it too, because he clears his throat, breaking the spell. “You should get inside. It’s getting late and cold.”
There it is. The soft, polite end. The invisible line is sliding back between us.
I nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I probably should.”
He brushes one last kiss against my temple, then steps away, gathering the empty dishes and opening the back door like nothing world-shifting just happened between us.
I follow him, still barefoot, my body heavy and loose. The kitchen lights are soft, and the air is cool. He sets the plates in the sink and turns back to me, then nods toward the living room.
