25. QUINN #2
Beck doesn’t wait. His mouth crashes onto mine the second we’re alone, desperate and consuming.
I whimper into him as he pins me back against a beam, his body flush to mine, all hard muscle and heat.
His hands grip my hips, then slide up, rough palms dragging over my waist, my ribs, until he’s cupping my breasts through my shirt, squeezing as if he wants to memorize the shape of me.
“Fuck, Quinn,” he rasps against my lips, his breath ragged. “I can’t stop. I don’t even want to.”
I tug his head down, kissing him harder, teeth clashing, tongues tangling until I’m dizzy.
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back so his mouth can scorch down my neck, biting hard enough to leave marks that will bloom tomorrow.
I moan and claw at his back, yanking at his shirt until he tears it over his head and tosses it aside.
God, he’s beautiful. Broad chest, inked and scarred, hot to the touch.
I drag my nails over his skin just to hear the groan rip from his throat.
He doesn’t give me long to admire—his hands are already under my shirt, dragging it off me, shoving my bra down to suck one nipple into his mouth.
The wet pull of his tongue sends shockwaves down my spine, and I gasp, arching against him.
“Please,” I whisper, though I don’t even know what I’m begging for.
He grins against my skin, wicked and dark. “You want my mouth on you, sweetheart? Or my hand between your thighs first?”
Heat floods me so fast it’s dizzying. I can only nod, and that’s enough for him. His fingers slide under the waistband of my jeans, cupping me through my panties. He presses down, slow at first, then harder when he feels how wet I already am.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he growls, biting my shoulder. “I’ll ruin these.”
And then he does, shoving my jeans down far enough to get access, pushing my panties aside, fingers sliding through my slick folds. I cry out, gripping his arm as he circles my clit—slow, relentless, teasing me until I’m writhing against him.
“Beck, please—“
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, kissing me again as he pushes a finger inside me, then another.
The stretch, the way he curls them just right—I’m a mess, grinding against his hand, moaning into his mouth.
He fucks me with his fingers until I’m trembling, right on the edge, then pulls out, leaving me shaking with need.
Before I can protest, he sinks to his knees on the barn floor, yanking my jeans down to my boots. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wide, and then his mouth is on me—hot, wet, merciless. His tongue flicks and circles, his lips sucking my clit until my legs nearly give out.
“God, Beck!” My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling, holding on. He groans against me, the vibration sending me over the edge, pleasure crashing through me in violent waves.
He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, pushing at his shoulders with a weak laugh. “You’re going to kill me.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking up at me. “And I’ll follow you right into the afterlife.”
Before I can breathe, I’m tugging at his belt, desperate now. I shove his jeans down, and his cock springs free—thick, heavy, already slick at the tip. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face twist with need.
“Quinn, fuck.” His voice is ragged when I take him into my mouth, sucking deep, swirling my tongue around the head before sliding down as far as I can.
His hands fist in my hair, pulling, guiding, his hips jerking forward helplessly.
I hollow my cheeks, bobbing faster, loving the way he groans my name like a prayer.
“I need to be inside you now,” he growls, his voice breaking, yanking me off him before he can lose control, dragging me up and spinning me against the beam. His mouth crashes back to mine, filthy and urgent, his cock grinding against my soaked core.
“Yes,” I gasp, clutching at him. “God, yes.”
He thrusts into me in one hard stroke, and I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. The world disappears. It’s only him— his rough rhythm, the wet slap of our bodies, the guttural groans spilling from his throat as he drives deeper, harder, as if he’s trying to brand me from the inside out.
Every thrust feels like surrender, worship, and ruin. He whispers my name again and again, breaking me open, and I give him everything back—my body, voice, soul—because I can’t give him the words I’m too afraid to say.
We collapse together, bodies shaking, breath ragged. His forehead rests against mine, both of us trembling from the storm we’ve just unleashed. The barn is silent except for the pounding of our hearts and the soft creak of the rafters above.
But Beck doesn’t let go. His hands are still on me, roaming, gripping, as if he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he stops touching me. His cock is still hard inside me, twitching, pulsing, not finished at all.
“Jesus, Quinn,” he mutters against my throat, kissing me roughly. “One time isn’t enough, not tonight.”
Before I can catch my breath, he shifts, hauling me up higher against the beam, lifting me as if I weigh nothing. I gasp as he slams back into me, harder this time, rougher, the kind of pace that makes the beam rattle against the floorboards.
“Beck!” I cry, arms tightening around his neck as he pounds into me, each thrust brutal, relentless. My back scrapes against the wood, my thighs burn from holding on, but I don’t care. I want it, all of it, every filthy, punishing inch of him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he snarls in my ear, his voice guttural. “So tight around me. You were made for me, Quinn. Say it—say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I moan, nails clawing down his back. “All yours.”
He growls, biting down on my shoulder, and the sting only makes me wetter.
He fucks me until I’m shaking apart again, until I can’t tell where pain ends and pleasure begins.
When he finally pulls out, I’m about to whimper in protest, but he spins me around, bending me over the nearest hay bale before I can blink.
“Don’t move,” he orders, his voice a dark growl.
The rough straw scratches my palms as I brace myself, my ass high in the air, exposed and aching for him. He smacks me once, hard, claiming, and I moan, shameless and wrecked. Then he’s shoving back inside, deeper this time, hitting me at an angle that makes me see stars.
“Fuck, Beck!” My scream echoes through the barn, filthy and desperate.
He slams into me over and over, one hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back so I can’t look away from him. “Look at me while I ruin you,” he growls, his eyes blazing.
The world narrows to the sharp slap of his hips against mine, the barn shaking with every thrust, the slick, obscene sounds of us.
He doesn’t let me breathe or think, only feel.
And when I come again, it’s violent—my body convulsing, vision blurring, a cry ripped from my throat that doesn’t even sound like me.
Beck follows with a roar, thrusting deep as he spills inside me, his whole body shuddering against mine. He slumps over me, chest pressed to my back, both of us panting, ruined, drenched in sweat and hay dust.
And still, even then, I feel him kiss the back of my neck, as though the filth we just made together is holy.
Afterward, I lie tangled in his arms on the soft bed of hay, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek. His hand strokes slowly down my back, gentle now, reverent.
“I love you, Quinn,” he whispers into my hair.
My throat tightens, the words trembling on the edge of my tongue. I want to tell him. I almost do. But instead, I press a kiss to his chest and whisper, “I know.”
And I hope, somehow, he understands everything I’m still too scared to say.