Chapter 13 Landon #2
I nod, and he rewards me by circling his thumb around the rim, not pushing in, just teasing.
I can’t help the sound I make—half moan, half plea. He grins, pleased with himself.
He leans down, mouths along my inner thigh, then licks me, slow, right where I need it. My legs jerk, but he just holds me down harder.
I beg without meaning to. “Briar, please—”
“Patience,” he says. “I want to take my time.”
He does. He licks, then pushes his tongue inside, and the sensation makes me see black at the edges of my vision. He fucks me with his tongue, steady, relentless, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of every other person I’ve ever been with out of my mind.
Then he pulls back, grabs the lube from the bedside table. He slicks his fingers, makes a show of it, then slides one inside me, slow and careful.
He watches my face the whole time.
He adds a second, and the stretch is sharp, but good. I let my head fall back, breathing hard.
He fucks me with his fingers, then crooks them up and I nearly scream. He’s searching, and when he finds it, I’m done for.
He keeps doing it, pushing, pulling, never too rough. I don’t know how long it lasts. I lose track of everything but the building pressure, the need to be full, to be taken.
When I can’t take it anymore, I say, “Please, just—”
He shushes me. “I know. I know what you need.”
He slicks himself up, then lines up, his cock pushing against me, not in yet, just resting there.
He leans over, kisses me again, then bites my lower lip so hard I taste blood. He holds it, lets me feel the threat of his teeth, then kisses the sting away.
He pushes in, slow, never breaking eye contact.
The burn is real, but I take it. I want to take it. I want the pain and the stretch and the certainty that I’m the only thing he wants.
He sinks in, inch by inch, until he’s balls deep, his chest heaving, sweat already starting to bead on his forehead.
He doesn’t move at first. He just holds me, his mouth pressed to my ear.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, wrecked.
I shudder. He moves, just enough to set up a rhythm, then pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, hard enough that the bed frame cracks against the wall.
I moan, loud. He covers my mouth with his hand, eyes burning into mine.
“Quiet,” he says, but he’s grinning. “You’ll wake the whole valley.”
I smile around his palm, and he fucks me harder. The sound of it—skin on skin, the creak of the mattress, my muffled gasps—is the best music I’ve ever heard. There’s nothing else in the world but this.
He moves my legs up onto his shoulders, changing the angle. It’s deeper, rougher, every thrust a jolt that arcs up my spine. He watches my face, reading every twitch, every wince, every shudder.
When he hits the right spot, I see stars. He knows, and he keeps going, pounding into me until I’m begging again, unable to hold back.
He leans in, mouth at my ear. “Touch yourself,” he says. “I want to see you come.”
I do, because I’d do anything he says in this moment.
It’s fast. I’m so close it takes just a few strokes. I feel the heat build, then break, and I come hard, striping my chest, the sheets, the air. He watches, fascinated, then groans and grabs my hip, slamming in one last time.
He comes inside me, the warmth spreading, and he bites down on my neck as he finishes, marking me.
He collapses on top of me, pinning me with his weight. I wrap my arms around him, hold him tight, not wanting to let go.
He pulls out, slow, then rolls us onto our sides, facing each other, keeping me close. He runs his hands up and down my body, gentle, soothing, as if trying to make up for the brutality of before.
For a long time, there’s just the sound of our breathing, tangled together in the wreckage of the bed.
He kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then my mouth, softer this time.
“You alive?” he asks.
I nod, throat tight.
He holds me, his heart hammering against my ribs.
His eyes are closed. He looks peaceful, almost. I wonder if he dreams, or if the years of being a hunter killed the soft parts of his brain. Maybe that’s what draws me in—I can’t help but poke the raw places in people, see what’s left.
I follow the line of the scar with my finger. He opens his eyes, watches me. There’s something different in the way he looks at me now. Less like a possession, more like an accomplice.
I meet his gaze. “What are you thinking?”
He shrugs, but the movement is careful. “That you’re the only person who ever looked at me and didn’t see a monster.”
“Not true,” I say. “I see it. I just don’t care.”
He grins, then pulls me tighter to him, like he wants to hide me from the rest of the world. The gesture is possessive, but there’s a tenderness in it, too.
We lie like that, not speaking, for a long time. My skin cools, but his hands are warm. Every time I think he’s asleep, he does something—tugs my hair, nips my ear, runs a finger down my arm—just to remind me that he’s still there, still in control.
I should feel trapped. I should be trying to leave. Any sane person would. Instead, I trace another scar, this one on his shoulder. I let myself think about nothing but the shape of him under my hand.
Something’s different.
It takes me a minute to realize what it is. For the first time since the world went to hell, I’m not afraid. Not of him, not of myself, not of what comes next.
I look at his face, the lines around his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow. “What do you want?” I ask, needing to hear the answer out loud.
He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he studies me, like he’s weighing every part of me before deciding.
“I want you,” he sighs. “And I want you to want it, too.”
I take a breath. “I choose this,” I say. “I choose you. And whatever comes with that.”
He tenses, just for a second, like the words cut him. Then he relaxes, lets out a long, shuddering breath, and pulls me up so we’re inches apart.
He kisses me, slow and deep, and in that kiss is everything he can’t say: the danger, the risk, the possibility of a future.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. I let my eyes close. I don’t need to see the mountains. I don’t need to see anything but him.
He cups my face in his hands, thumbs gentle on my cheeks.
“Good,” he whispers.
He holds me there, just breathing me in, until the world outside stops mattering.