Chapter 28
28
He thinks Oscar Jackson might be the dumbest man alive.
He might be a close second.
My senses come rushing back to me with a startling clarity.
It’s like I’m feeling everything in high definition. Everything is extra sensitive, extra stimulating—rough hands contrasting soft lips, the scrape of stubble against my cheeks, the solidity of his chest beneath my palms. The blood rushing in my ears is deafening, as loud as our mingled breaths, as the harmonious noises creeping up our throats, as the sloppy sounds our melded mouths make.
This kiss is nothing like our first. I thought… I can’t believe I ever thought that was what desperation felt like. This is desperate. This is starved . Like it might be our last, and there’s something ominous as well as exhilarating about it.
This time, when he palms my ass rough enough to coax a whimper out of me, he doesn’t jerk away. He doesn’t stop. He kneads harder, kisses harder, mercilessly steals the breath from my lungs, and I’m more than willing to give it.
I’m greedy .
Pressing myself as close to Hunter as physically possible, I search for a way to relieve the ache throbbing between my thighs, an ache I haven’t felt in a while, an ache I’ve forgotten how to satiate.
It terrifies me, bone-deep freaking terrifies me, how very much I want Hunter to be the one to remind me.
I feel like a different person. A more confident person who’s capable of shoving her fears into a dark corner and slamming a metaphorical door on them. The kind of person who can elicit the reactions Hunter is giving me, the noises and the touches and the hard protrusion digging into my stomach that I swear throbs when Hunter thrusts against me.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Caroline,” he murmurs against my lips, hoisting me up and guiding my legs around his waist. “ Fuck, baby.”
I’m floating. Literally, I guess, held in Hunter’s strong, capable arms, but metaphorically too. High on the confidence Hunter is inspiring within me, on the raspy words ripping from his throat, on the eager fingertips gliding across my skin.
But some of that confidence dies when those fingers stray too far. When they drift to the hem of my borrowed shirt, when Hunter slowly starts dragging it upwards, and I tense despite trying so hard not to.
Hunter stops. His hands move to safer territory—although, I’m not sure the underside of my thighs is entirely safe. Stroking soothingly, he rasps, “Too much?”
I shake my head—not quite a lie, not quite the truth.
He drops to kiss the crook of my neck, lips grazing my collarbone. “We should probably talk.”
“You don’t want to…” I swallow hard, tipping my head back to blink at the ceiling. “Do stuff?”
Strained laughter ghosts across my skin. I frown when I’m set on my feet, confused by Hunter’s pinched expression. I don’t protest when he takes my hand, not putting up an ounce of fight as he slips our laced fingers behind the unzipped front of his jeans, not doing anything other than focusing on pulling air into my lungs as he pulses beneath my palm.
“I wanna do stuff , honey.” He rocks the proof against me, lips quirking when I make a strangled noise. “I’m just not sure you do. You tensed up on me.”
His hand retreats, but mine remains. Just for one, curious second, I marvel over the heat, the hardness, the size.
Jesus, the size .
When Hunter makes a noise in the back of his throat, I snap out of it. I snatch my hand back, try to curl it around the hem of my shirt again, but Hunter’s there, taking it again, holding it in his. Squeezing comfortingly as I search for words that don’t make me sound pathetic and insecure and as so very inexperienced as I am.
I’m not sure, “You make me nervous,” accomplishes that, but it’s what comes out.
Ever-so-slightly, Hunter stiffens. “Uncomfortable kind of nervous?”
I shake my head, frowning and flushing and unsure how to explain it any more eloquently than, “You look at me and I get nervous.”
Hunter’s expression crumples. When he nods briskly and takes a step back, I slump. When he turns away from me, I drop my gaze, blowing out a breath so harsh and frustrated, it displaces the damp hair around my face.
Excellent work, Caroline. The first man who wants to touch you in years, and you scare him off by acting like a wimp. Great freaking job.
I don’t look up when Hunter takes my hand once more. I let him guide me towards the most stable looking wall in this ruined building, but I still don’t look up. When he flops onto the ground, though, he flops right into my line of sight, and I can’t avoid that crooked smile as he spreads those giant thighs and pats the ground between them, covered by a thin blanket he must’ve had in his saddle bag.
Hesitantly, I do as he silently asks. Not quite where he asks—near his feet, I lower myself onto my knees, squealing when I’m suddenly yanked and lifted and twisted, plopped back down facing away from him and coaxed to lean against his chest.
Gathering my hair away from my neck, Hunter deftly fixes it into a loose, messy braid. Lips pressed to my neck, he smooths his hands along my bare thighs until he’s cupping my knees. “Better?”
Without his gaze quite so unavoidably there ? I offer a jerky nod as I brace my palms against the muscular thighs caging me in, gripping him in a way that’s anything but gentle.
The way Hunter touches me is nothing but.
He eases me into another kiss, caressing my mouth open, tongue lightly tangling with mine before his teeth begin to nip, his tongue begins to lash, his hips begin to rock. When my breath becomes impossibly ragged, when my body goes limp, when I'm barely able to hold my own against the wanton cloud hazing my mind—that's when he tests my limits.
Teeth nipping at my bottom lip draw a whimper out of me. At the same time, he tugs on my shirt. “Can I take this off?”
I tense again, and that’s answer enough for him.
He doesn’t give me time to be mad at myself for wimping out again. Not when he so easily moves on, looping his thumb around my thong waistband and tugging in a way that makes my back arch instinctively. “What about these?”
The breath I suck in feels thick, viscous, like it has to fight to get into my lungs. When I hesitate, there’s no pressure from Hunter. He waits patiently, his hands stationary on my hips, his thready breaths tickling my neck and inciting a stirring sensation deep in my belly.
Not nerves. Something else. Something I want more of.
My nod is barely perceivable, but Hunter’s tut is loud and clear. “Words, honey.”
One word; that’s all I manage. All I need, luckily. “Yes.”
The satisfied noise he makes reverberates from his body through mine—the audible relief lodges itself beneath my skin.
He does it quickly. Taps my hips until I lift them off the ground enough for him to slip my panties off. Through hazy eyes, I watch the fabric slide down my legs, equal parts terrified and enthralled by the sight, too distracted to panic because of the lips laving my neck with attention, whispering sweet words I can’t make out over the erratic drumming of my pulse, but the praising encouragements soak into my skin regardless.
Gently, he coaxes my legs further apart and then, he’s there . Cupping between my thighs. Swearing beneath his breath. Nipping my earlobe, my jaw, my shoulder.
Stroking. Spreading. Teasing.
The hand not driving me to the brink of insanity comes to rest just above my collarbones, ever so slightly bracketing the base of my throat. His nose drags over my cheek, inhaling deeply, exhaling heavily.
“Tell me what you like,” he demands yet pleads at the same time.
I writhe in his grip, a whimper catching in my throat when his fingers drift somewhere I definitely, definitely like. “I don't know.”
Hunter stills. Repeats, “You don't know.”
Shaking my head jerkily, I whine and buck my hips, seeking some friction, trying to coax him into moving, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he retreats, one hand flattening against my pelvis to hold me still while the other tilts my face towards him. “Are you a virgin, honey?”
I shake my head. But I might as well be; my only experience wasn’t the most… adventurous. We had sex, sure. But not very often, since privacy was kind of hard to come by. And we didn’t experiment like some of the other people in our class bragged about doing because I was too scared, too self-conscious, and Jackson never pushed for anything more. He didn’t want anything more. Or at least not with me.
When I mutter a watered-down version of that, the chest at my back rumbles with an unimpressed noise. “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” Hunter scoffs, that damn hand diving between my thighs again, catching me off guard when he cups me roughly, practically lifting me off the ground. “Four years and he never bothered to figure out what you like?”
I should protest that it wasn’t his fault—that I never bothered to figure it out for myself either. That I always felt too awkward, too unsure, too self-conscious. But I’m incapable of forming any words, what with sure, capable fingers grazing bare, wet flesh and setting every inch of me alight.
He brushes my clit lightly, testingly, and I shiver at the pleasant fluttering sensation in my belly. The pressure intensifies, his thumb pressing down hard, and my hips eagerly rise to meet the movement as a mortifyingly loud moan rips from my throat, echoed by Hunter's deep chuckle.
“See?” God, he’s the epitome of smug. “Easy.”
I moan some more, loud and uninhibited, unable to help myself because I like this. I really freaking like this. Slow but hard circles of his thumb, low whispers in my ear, his heartbeat thrumming against my back and his pulse beating against my forehead when I twist to bury my face in his neck, seeking refuge from his ceaseless gaze.
“Atta girl,” he praises, kissing whatever part of me he can reach. “Nice and loud, honey. Tell me.”
No matter how hard I try to be quiet, my vocal cords—my instincts —work against me, and every moan, every whine, only seems to make Hunter hungry for more. More and more and more, faster and faster and faster, harder and harder and harder until the taut coil building in my belly is almost unbearable. When one thick finger dips inside me, a perfectly tight fit, I feel like I might shatter—when a throaty voice murmurs in my ear, I almost do. “You think you can handle more?”
I’m not entirely sure, considering I’ve seen the size of those fingers, considering I can feel the size of just one. But I think I need it—I think I cry out a desperate yes before the question fully leaves his mouth.
“I know you can,” he croons, chuckling low and deep as he proves both of us right, stretching me so wide, I can barely breathe, can hardly think, can’t do anything but make needy noises and grind against his hand and wonder how the hell I’ve gone twenty-two years without feeling this good .
“ Perfect .” The hips behind me thrust, grinding a hard bulge against my lower back, the single hissed word followed by a string of colorful curses. “You feel fuckin’ perfect, Caroline.”
My hands find their way to his hair, clutching desperately as my back arches. My chest rises and falls dramatically, my heart beating dangerously fast and my head, my entire freaking body, feeling seconds away from exploding. “So do you.”
Groaning a laugh, Hunter nips at my arm. “More?”
“Yes, please.”
“So polite,” he teases, but he obliges. There’s the tiniest sting as I adjust to the sheer girth of three fingers, unsure how they’re even fitting, but it doesn’t take long for any pain to be completely obliterated by the wave of sheer pleasure that almost knocks me out when they curl, and the pads brush a particularly sensitive spot—and thrust and thrust and thrust against it until my legs shake, until honest to God tears are tacking down my cheeks.
“Fuck, baby, I wish I could see.” Somehow, I manage to crank my neck enough to see Hunter watching the spot between my legs where his hand disappears, his view obscured by my shirt. “Wish I could see that pretty pussy ridin’ my hand, soakin’ it. Wish I could see you stretched tight. Fuck .”
The last word, he shouts when I clamp down around him, the deep timbre of his voice proving to be my undoing as the most intense orgasm I've ever experienced hits me like a freaking truck.
Ears ringing. Back arching. Abdomen aching. Mouth agape with a silent scream. Entire body quivering uncontrollably. Sweet, whispered praise hot against my sensitive skin. So much pleasure, I feel greedy experiencing it all.
I don’t know how long passes before the shaking stops. I just know that when it does, when I slump, exhausted, against Hunter’s chest, he cradles me gently. Lips pepper kisses against whatever bare skin he can reach. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs again and again, and I soar a little higher each time.
Again, I’m not sure how long it takes my mind to clear. For the husky voice in my ear to stop being the only thing that exists. For reality to sink in. But all at once, I realize I’m half-naked. In an old, infested barn. With an equine audience grazing in the corner, and a man with his fingers still inside of me.
I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, the burst of nervous laughter that abruptly escapes me is far superior to, say, a river of tears. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“You didn’t do anythin’.” The smuggest man in Haven Ridge removes his freaking fingers from my freaking vagina, and I think I actually die for a second at the audible sound they make. I think I die again when he raises them to his mouth and licks them clean, and I definitely score some kind of death hat-trick when he groans a deeply satisfied noise.
Jesus .
“Don’t.” A tug on my braid angles my face just right for Hunter to look me square in the eye. “Don’t ruin it. Stay out of your head, honey.”
“I’m trying.” The words come out croaky and hoarse, and those pretty eyes flash with pure male pride. Remembering something else purely male, I shift onto my hip, and try not to gape at his crotch. “Do you, uh…” I’m bright red, but then again, I probably have been for a while now. “Need help?”
“No.” His smile is nothing short of wicked. “Maybe later, though.”
I left my panties in Hell.
A sobering realization to have when you’re astride a galloping horse, thirty minutes from home, and your jeans start rubbing in weird places. Amusing too, though, and I laughed about it when we made it back to the barn and I dismounted Aster. Now, though, I’m not amused. Not entirely sober, either.
I’m drunk off a high that never seems to end, a high caused by the fingers thrusting between my thighs, the skilled man expertly using them.
With my hands lost in his hair, I’m not sure if I’m trying to pull Hunter away from my chest, or hold him there. If I want the mouth wrapped around my nipple, the man fisting my top around my collarbones, to stop, or to never. I get my answer when Hunter retreats, and I whine at the loss.
Unwrapping my legs from around his waist, he sets me on my feet. I slump against the barn, its peeling red paint itching whatever bare skin it touches, but I’m too preoccupied to really notice, too focused on the man dropping to his knees and dragging my jeans down enough so he can…
Tightening my grip on his hair, I stop him. “I've never…”
I trail off, avoiding eye contact, not exactly a fan of once again admitting how utterly inexperienced I am. Through no fault but my own—it was me who never wanted to let Jackson go down on me, who was too self-conscious. I still am, but some of it ebbs when I reluctantly meet a borderline feral, possessive gaze that knocks the breath from my lungs.
Hunter might be struggling with the concept of breathing too because his exhale is shaky. “You tellin’ me no one’s ever had their mouth on this pussy?”
My knees threaten to buckle as I shake my head. When his gaze drops and he stares with a look akin to that of a starved man, it’s truly a miracle I don’t pass out.
“Oh, honey,” he croons, palming my ass, pulling my hips towards him, one move away from all but burying his face between my thighs. “Please let me be the first.”
How, how , am I supposed to do anything other than whine like a freaking dog in heat when faced with words like that, coupled with a pleading, desperate expression that’s flush with all kinds of desire I truly didn't think myself capable of inspiring?
Shuffling my feet a little further apart, I practically serve myself up on a freaking silver platter. There’s not enough room in my brain for shame or overthinking; there’s only need. Red hot, all-consuming need for him .
Hunter doesn’t leave me hanging, suffering , for long. Doesn’t give me time to lament over the undignified position of being out in the open with my jeans around my knees, my panties lost. No, he proves he’s just as eager as I am by spreading my legs as much as he can, and groaning at the sight that greets him.
“Fuck, baby.” Hot breath tickles my sensitive skin, his tongue flicking my clit so lightly yet I feel it so sharply. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
Squeezing my goose-bumped flesh, Hunter smiles up at me, soft and encouraging, but laced with a hint of something downright devious. “Tell me if you don't like somethin’, okay?”
I'm barely capable of speaking, but I manage, spurred on by the terrifying thought that if I take too long to answer, he'll stop. “Okay.”
Once again, he doesn't give me time to think, and God, am I grateful for that. Thinking is my worst enemy. Thinking only hinders me, time and time again. Thinking would inevitably ruin what quickly becomes the best moment of my life when Hunter shows me exactly what I've been missing out on all these years.
“ Oh my God .” I moan loudly at the first incessant stroke of his tongue. Too loudly. I know I have to be quiet. I know someone could easily hear us. I know that, any minute now, someone could stumble upon us, see what he's doing to me.
But Hunter's tongue does a whole lot to diminish my ability to give a crap.
In less than a minute, he figures out what I like, quicker than I do. He learns that I like, no, love , whatever the hell his tongue is doing to my clit. I love when his fingers dig into my skin, clutching with a certain kind of dizzying ferocity. I love the scratch of his beard against my inner thighs.
Most of all, though, I love when his eyes occasionally flit up to meet mine so I can see just how much he loves it all too.
I clamp a hand over my mouth while the other grapples for balance, practically pulling Hunter’s hair out when he slips two fingers inside of me and the sloppy sound of his thrusting digits fills the air, but he doesn’t complain. In fact, my tight grip is rewarded by a scrape of his teeth against my clit, a move that would send me to the floor if not for Hunter holding me up.
In an embarrassingly short amount of time, I'm close. So freaking close. Right there on the edge, but I can't quite seem to get over. It's like I'm missing something. Like I need more.
As though he can read my mind, or maybe he just senses my frustration, Hunter pulls away, licking his glossy lips as he crooks a brow at me. “You need more, honey?”
Another frantic nod.
“You need me to talk to you, right?” he continues, embodying his emotion of the day— smug . “Need to hear how good you're doin’. So good, honey. Taste so fuckin’ good. Damn near makin’ me come in my fuckin’ jeans and you're not even touchin’ me.”
My breath leaves me with a series of sobs, my nails scraping his scalp, my hips writhing and jerking uncontrollably. A third finger splays me open and I cry out, the high-pitched sound such a contrast to Hunter's grumble. “You imaginin’ that's my cock honey?”
Well, now I freaking am.
“I am.” Fingers thrust so impossibly deep as he sucks my clit hard . “Gonna be a real tight fit, honey, but I know you can take it. Every inch.”
I go off like a freaking firework. Biting down on my palm to stop from screaming, my eyes screw shut as stars dance across my lids, ears ringing as wave after wave after wave of ecstasy floods my body. I crumple, caught by strong hands before I hit the ground, and I melt against Hunter, listening to the erratic thump of his heart as I try to steady my own rapid breathing.
“I think about doin’ that every time you wear one of your pretty dresses.”
I fist the wrinkled cotton of his barely dry t-shirt. “I always wear pretty dresses.”
His smirk is boiling hot against my temple. “Exactly.”
Forehead pressed against his sternum, I choke out a laugh.
A hand coasts up my trembling back, cupping my nape. “We should talk, honey.”
“Not today.” I swallow hard. “Please.”
I just want to enjoy today. Take my little win. My bright side.
There’s no argument from Hunter. No pushback except for the physical kind of him gently nudging me away so he can crouch to drag my jeans back up my legs. I shiver when he zips and buttons them, his thumb brushing my lower stomach before curling around a belt loop and dragging me towards him again for another leisurely, messy kiss.
“C’mon.” He spins me around and guides me back inside the barn, then through the doors on the other side. “Gotta wash my hands.”
I die inside, but I’m laughing. I laugh my way to the main house, giddy and buzzing, hoping I’m not quite as moon-eyed as I feel as I slide secret glances towards the man strolling beside me. Hunter doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t touch me, he’s not even walking within touching distance, but he’s smiling. Smiling at the ground with his hands in his pockets, looking so damn good, I could just—
“Hey.”
I freeze on the top step of the porch, almost getting bowled across it when Hunter barrels right into me. Steadying hands settle on my waist, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or instincts that has me batting them away before the woman crowding the open doorway notices.
“Hi,” I cough out. “What’s up?”
Lux’s eyes dart from me to the man looming behind me, and back again, “Where’ve you been?”
Her question is innocent, not a hint of suspicion to be found, yet I still duck my head to hide a raging blush. As nonchalant as I’m capable of, I shrug. “Out riding.”
God, I hope she doesn’t hear Hunter’s quiet snicker.
A dark brow arches. “All day?”
“We got caught in the rain.”
“Yeah,” Hunter adds. “Got a little wet.”
I hate him. Smug freaking bastard, with his teasing eyes and wandering hands and smirking, swollen lips. Do I look like that too? So thoroughly kissed ? I hope not. Talk about obvious. Not that we’ve decided not to be obvious—not that we’ve decided anything.
I decided, though. Just now. I decided I don’t want anyone to know, not yet, not until Hunter and I talk. I want to keep the bright side shiny and pretty, untarnished by well-meaning mockery and jokes.
Aiming a subtle elbow at Hunter’s abdomen, I take a cautious step towards Lux. “You okay?”
“Yup,” my friend lies, oblivious to my master’s degree in fake, sunny smiles as she flashes one before disappearing back into her house. “Dinner’s almost ready, if you’re hungry.”
The dismissal is disappointing, but who am I, with my vast experience in waving off concern, to judge? Who am I to push when she’s made it so clear that whatever's going on with her—with Everett—is none of my business?
Who am I to do anything vaguely normal when the big man behind me slaps my freaking ass on his way inside and claims he already ate?
It takes me a second to recover before I follow him inside. While he washes his hands thoroughly, casting me a teasing sideways glance, I make a beeline for the kitchen table. Within seconds of flopping into a free seat, three pairs of eyes burn into me, and my stomach heaves. “What?”
Wearing the least devious of smiles, Grace reaches up and plucks something from my hair. She holds her hand out, showing the speckles of red flakes littering her palm.
Red flakes that look awfully like dried paint the exact shade of the barn.
“Huh.” Clearing my throat, I run a hand through my hair, panic flaring when, sure enough, it comes away dotted in red. “That's weird.”
“So weird.” Luna props her elbow on the table, chin in her hand and a knowing gleam brightening blue eyes. “How on earth does a girl get dried paint in her hair, hm?”
I feel like I’m burning alive. “Must’ve knocked my head.”
Eliza—sweet, young Eliza—damn near chokes on a laugh. “Hunter must’ve knocked his head too.”
My gaze snaps to the man in question where he leans against the counter, talking to Jackson. Squinting, I can just barely make out something red sprinkled in his dark locks.
Crap, crap, crap.
Tongue-tied, I scramble to come up with a reasonable, believable excuse. “Uh, well—”
“Line?”
The interruption is a fleeting relief. I should’ve known Lux wouldn’t be my savior—she and her terrifying toothy grin are the freaking ringleader.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
“You wanna share why there’s a pair of panties hanging out of Hunter’s back pocket?”