THIRTY-SIX #3
“Good,” she whispers. “Because if you panic while attached to me, I’m going to haunt you.”
“I’d deserve it,” I tell her seriously.
“Mhm,” she mutters, right before her mouth crashes into mine again and my entire world narrows into nothing but her. Dakota. Her hot mouth, her scent that starts to cling to my skin, and the way she feels against me.
Dakota’s hands pull at my belt with more impatience than coordination then, and I let her have the struggle for all of three seconds before covering her fingers with mine.
She glares at me. “I can do it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you trying to help?” she presses.
“Because you’re about to murder my belt,” I point out.
Her mouth twitches. “It knows exactly what it did.”
I kiss the corner of her mouth before I undo it myself, and her breath changes when my zipper lowers.
Not with fear, and not with hesitation, but with awareness.
The room grows very quiet around that sound just before her fingers slide under the waistband of my pants with a bold touch until they reach bare skin.
Then they pause, just for a second. A tiny hesitation tucked between all the sharpness.
I catch her wrist, but I don’t stop her. I’m just holding the moment still enough for her to decide exactly what this moment is.
Dakota’s eyes raise to mine.
“I want to,” she says, already defensive before I even ask.
“I believe you,” I promise.
“Good.”
Then her hand moves lower and, this time, I let it.
The first touch of her fingers around me punches the air clean out of my lungs, and Dakota notices. Of course she does. Her eyes light up with something almost victorious, and for one second, grief isn’t the loudest thing in the room with us.
Want is.
Desire is.
Arousal is.
She strokes me once, slow and curious, watching my jaw tighten as if she’s learning a new language she has every intention of becoming fluent in just out of spite.
“You’re very quiet,” she whispers.
I swallow hard before I confess, “I’m trying very hard not to embarrass myself.”
“With what?” she asks. “Feelings or premature excitement?”
“Both. Both are a problem,” I tell her, maybe a little too quickly.
A laugh breaks out of her, only small but very real, and it hits harder than her hand.
I kiss her before the sound can disappear, before the world can steal it back, and she makes a brand new sound against my mouth that I store away in my brain. My hands slide to her hips, and she splits her thighs wider around me before pulling me close with her heel behind my leg.
Her pants are already sitting low on her thighs, so I ease them down a little farther, careful of her knee, her bruises, and in ways that make sure she doesn’t feel handled.
When I reach the edge of her underwear, I stop.
Her forehead drops against mine and she whispers, “Xeon.”
“Yes?”
“If you ask where one more time, I’m going to start throwing out threats.”
“You enjoy making threats,” I counter.
“I do,” she agrees. “But I’d much rather be naked.”
My control splits at the edges and my voice grows a little rougher when I say, “Then lift your hips.”
She does, but not gracefully. Not timidly.
Dakota braces one hand behind her on the workbench and lifts just enough for me to slide the last barrier down her legs. I keep my palm under her bad knee while I do it, supporting the joint without once mentioning it.
She notices anyway, and her expression shifts. Not soft, exactly, but a lot less armed than usual. Then she reaches for me again, fingers curling around the back of my neck.
When she tugs, I gladly follow, kissing her just as my fingers slide between her thighs. She’s slick and hot against my fingers, and the sound she makes into my mouth is low enough to turn every single thought in my head to ash.
Her knees tighten around my hips when I stroke her slowly at first, learning the kind of pressure she likes, the angle that makes her fingers dig into my shoulders, and the rhythm that steals her sarcasm before she can conjure it.
Dakota breaks the kiss with a breathy, “More.”
I oblige, pushing one finger inside her. Her whole body goes still, but not in a way that’s wrong. More focused. Her eyes stay open, locked on mine, as if she’s daring me to look away first.
I don’t.
I curl my finger carefully, watching her face closely, and when her mouth parts with a silent gasp, I do it again.
“There?” I ask.
Her nails bite into my shoulder, and her words leave with a breathy moan as she warns, “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
“There,” I confirm, and she makes a furious little sound before rocking into my hand.
I add a second finger the moment her body allows it, slow enough to feel the tension give way to want. Her head tips back under the grow lights, pale hair spilling down her spine, her throat exposed and untouched.
I look but I don’t bite. I don’t even lower my mouth there. Not tonight, even if my teeth are aching with my restraint.
Dakota sees it and her breath catches before she whispers, “No bite.”
“No bite,” I promise, and her eyes flicker with a trust just as lethal as a freshly sharpened blade.
Then her hand wraps around me again, stroking my hardness with less certainty than heat.
“I want you inside me,” she says, the words rough and brave and too honest to be polished.
My entire body locks down around the sound of them, and I pull my fingers free slowly. She watches me bring them to my mouth, and her pupils blow wide when I taste her from my skin.
Wild honey.
Rain.
Sweetness and sugar.
Everything I’ll be craving until the day I die.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, and for once there isn’t an insult behind it. Just a breath and muttered words.
I find protection in the emergency kit mounted near the door, because Haven Ridge apparently prepares for everything, including poor decisions in rooms meant for agriculture.
Dakota laughs when I come back with it, not loudly or happily, but enough that the sound places something warm under my ribs. “Of course this place has condoms in a greenhouse.”
“Maybe the plants are romantic,” I say.
“Never say that again,” she demands, though there’s amusement in her words now.
I tear the foil open instead of answering, and her eyes drop to my hands as I roll the thin rubber along my shaft. The sight of her watching almost ruins me before I even touch her again.
I lean down and kiss her knee, and her expression changes this time. Something more startled. I kiss above it, then her thigh, and then I return to her mouth before the softness can become too much for her to tolerate.
Her hand slides between us, guiding me, and that almost ends me too.
Dakota O’Reilly, furious and shaking and alive, choosing exactly where she wants me.
I line myself up and stop. Her eyes narrow on me. “Don’t be noble when I’m naked.”
“I’m not being noble,” I assure her.
“You’re hesitating.”
“I’m just remembering that this belongs to you,” I say, and the anger leaves her face so quickly it almost looks like it pains her.
Then her grip tightens at the back of my neck and she demands, “Then let me have it.”
So I do. I push inside her slowly and her breath shudders.
So does mine.
She’s tight around me, hot and trembling, and every single inch feels like I’m being trusted with something lethal enough to kill me. I keep one hand braced on the table next to her hip while the other rests at her waist, loose enough that she can move but firm enough that she knows I’m right here.
Dakota’s eyes stay open, and mine do too.
The first sound she makes isn’t a moan, but a stunned and broken breath, like she expected softness to bruise but found warmth instead.
I stop as soon as I’m fully seated inside her. Her nails dig into my shoulders and she rasps, “Don’t you dare be patient right now.”
I shake my head once, voice strained as I tell her, “I’m deciding whether or not I can move without losing my mind.”
“Oh.”
The smallest ghost of a smile crosses her mouth.
“Take your time, then.”
I laugh, a quiet and almost helpless sound.
Then I move.
Slow at first, because slow lets me feel every place she takes me in.
Slow lets me watch the tension melt from her jaw only to return again when pleasure builds too sharply.
Slow lets her decide whether she wants to meet me or hold still or pull me closer until there’s no space left between our bodies.
Dakota chooses closer.
Her legs lock around my hips and her arms wrap around my shoulders, not hiding now. Not shielding herself from me. Her mouth finds mine again, messy and hungry, and when I thrust deeper, she bites back a sound against my lower lip.
“Again,” she breathes.
So I give it to her again.
Harder.
Not cruel and never careless. But enough to rock the table under her. Enough to make the planter trays rattle nearby. Enough that she grips onto me like she needs somewhere to put all the things she refuses to scream.
There’s nothing fragile in her. Nothing breakable. She’s all heat and tight grip and breath, all scars and choices and fury all molded into pleasure.
I kiss her when she gets too quiet, and I slow when her knee tenses. I move deeper when her nails demand it, and I listen to every sound she gives me and every silence she doesn't even know she’s offering.
Her breath breaks against my mouth and for once she doesn’t turn it into a joke. Neither of us does.
After that, words disappear completely. There’s only her body moving with mine, her breath pushing against my mouth, and my name becoming something between a plea and a warning.
I slide my hand between us and touch her where her body is stretched around me, circling with the same rhythm as my hips. Dakota shudders violently, and she gasps, “Fuck.”
Her head falls back and I catch the back of her neck with my free hand, supporting her without holding her down. She looks at me like she knows the difference, too. Like it matters. And that’s because it does.
My knot starts to swell then, and I feel the change, stopping my movements for half a breath while every muscle in my body locks down around the instinct to thrust deeper and keep her there.