Chapter 17LARK #4
Tongue driving into me, fast and filthy. My hips buck but his grip tightens, holding me there while he wrecks me. There are sounds coming out of me I’ve never made before—high, breathless, feral. It’s too much. Not enough. I’m unraveling so fast I can barely keep up.
Boone’s always been good at this—like, unfairly good—but right now?
He’s on another fucking level. Like his life depends on making me come so hard I forget my own name.
He’s all mouth and hands and laser-sharp focus, reading every twitch, every breath, every broken sound I make like he’s syncing to my heartbeat.
And his mouth? Lethal. Devoted. Like he’s not just trying to get me off—he’s committing it to memory. Every flick of his tongue is precise, every pass slow at first, then suddenly fast, then slow again, dragging through the mess between my thighs like he owns it.
Then—just when I think I might survive this—he slides two fingers in, deep, and curls them.
I jolt. Not a slow burn. Not a buildup. A fucking detonation. The kind that hits behind your knees and makes your vision white out.
“Boone—” It’s a gasp. A plea. My whole body’s shaking, but he just tightens his grip on my hip.
The rope bites into my wrists, tight above my head, grounding me in the best, filthiest way.
He pulls his fingers out slow—so slow I want to scream—and shoves them right back in, hard enough to make me see stars. Then he groans, low and wrecked, his mouth brushing my thigh. “You hear that, sweetheart?” he rasps. His voice sounds like sandpaper and sex. “That’s you.”
And holy fuck, it is. It’s obscene. Wet and messy and so loud it echoes.
I should be mortified, but I want him to hear it. I want him to drown in it.
Then he’s gone—hands off, fingers out—and I whimper at the loss, but before I can even process it, his mouth is back on me.
Just his mouth. No fingers, no hands, no distractions.
And it’s brutal. He licks through me like he’s making up for lost time, groaning into my cunt like I taste better than anything he’s ever had.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I’m panting, sweating, straining against the rope like I might snap it in two.
And he’s loving it. Thriving on it.
My voice is raw when I speak. “Boone…someone could walk in. They’ll hear—”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just pulls back enough to rasp, “Let them.”
Then he’s right back on me, faster, harder, tongue ruthless, like that was the only breath he was willing to give me before dragging me to the edge again.
“Right there,” I gasp. “Don’t stop—Boone, don’t— ”
But he already knows. His rhythm locks in, tongue flicking, sucking, licking in this filthy pattern that feels customized to destroy me. My thighs are shaking—hard—muscles locking, hips jerking, and I know I’m seconds away from falling apart.
He feels it. The way I tighten. The way I start to come undone in his hands. And he groans, mouth still wrecking me.
“Come on my tongue,” he growls. “Now, Lark.”
I shatter.
My whole body goes rigid, back arching so hard I think I might break in half, and then I’m screaming, loud and desperate, no air, no control, just noise. Just pleasure. Just Boone’s mouth dragging me through it like he wants to own every fucking second of my orgasm.
And he doesn’t stop.
He licks through it, slows it down, tongue moving lazy now, catching every pulse and twitch like he’s tasting the aftershocks. Like he wants it to last.
By the time he pulls back, I’m limp. Wrecked. Sweat-slick and breathless, my body useless and trembling.
He rises and before I can even catch a breath, he’s lining himself up and slamming into me with one deep, brutal thrust.
I scream again, the stretch sharp and overwhelming, but it’s real. It’s what I need. My hips jerk up, chasing the weight of him, and my legs lock around his waist.
“Shit,” Boone hisses, forehead pressed to mine, eyes wild. “You feel that? You’re squeezing the fuck out of me.”
I feel everything. Every thick, pulsing inch of him. Every drag. Every thrust. My wrists burn against the rope. My skin’s on fire. But I don’t care. I want to burn for this. I want to break for it.
Boone’s hands slide under my thighs and lifts—hard and high—spreading me wide open like he wants to see everything.
Own everything. There’s nowhere to hide, and I don’t want to.
Not when he’s fucking me like this—deep, filthy, possessive.
Like he’s trying to reach someplace inside me no one’s ever touched .
And God, he does.
The new angle hits like a punch to the gut, sharp and perfect. My spine bows off the floor and I let out this broken gasp—half moan, half prayer.
“Yeah,” Boone murmurs, like I just gave him the answer to every question he’s ever had. “Right there. That’s where I want you.”
His rhythm shifts. Faster. Harder. His hips snap into mine, rough and relentless, and I swear I feel him in my throat. Sweat drips from his temple onto my chest. His breath is all over my mouth, hot and ragged.
“I’m not gonna last long,” he growls, jaw tight, losing it. “You’re too fucking tight. Too wet. You’re wringing me dry, baby.”
He drops his head to my shoulder and fucks me harder, pushing into me with thrusts that make me bite down a scream. The hay scratches my back, the rope bites my wrists, but it’s nothing compared to the burn between my legs.
“Tell me what you need,” he growls against my skin, teeth grazing my throat. “Tell me how to make you come again.”
“Talk to me,” I gasp. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”
His breath catches. His hips stutter like I just knocked the air out of him. And then he’s at my ear, voice dark and wrecked, like it’s tearing out of his chest.
“I want to come inside you,” he says, deep and low. “I want to fill you up so good you’re leaking for hours. Want you walking around with me dripping out of you.”
My whole body tightens, a pulse tearing through me so fast it makes my toes curl. Boone feels it, feels me fluttering around him, and lets out a string of curses.
“I want to mark you up from the inside out,” he groans.
He drags my hips closer and drives in deep, hitting that spot that makes my eyes roll back.
“Right there,” I cry out. “Right fucking there—”
He locks onto me like he’s chasing that exact reaction, and I lose it. Each thrust is so deep it steals my breath, and there’s nothing gentle about it. It’s all hunger and need and that edge of desperation that feels like love with the volume turned up too high.
The stretch is almost too much, the pressure blinding. There’s no space between us—none. He’s everywhere, all heat and skin and sweat and this intensity in his eyes that makes me feel seen in a way that’s not fair.
Then his hand’s on my face, gripping gently but firm, turning me toward him.
“No,” he pants. “Eyes on me, Lark.”
I blink, dazed and dizzy, and find him already looking at me—like he never stopped. Like he’s been holding on by that thread of eye contact.
“Don’t look away,” he whispers, desperate now. “I need to see you when we come together.”
My heart stutters.
The air’s thick—sweat, sex, the creak of rope and wood and flesh. The sound of his body hitting mine again and again, every slap sharp and perfect. My back scrapes the floor, my thighs tremble, and every inch of me is too much.
Too full. Too close.
Each thrust forces a moan out of me, raw and messy. My breasts bounce, friction sparking like fire across my skin. Boone’s hands dig into my hips like he’s barely holding himself back—using me to survive this.
My vision tunnels. The pressure builds and builds and then—
I snap.
My whole body locks up. My back arches. I scream—loud, cracked, no holding back—and I come around him hard. Harder than before. Maybe harder than ever. It tears through me, one sharp wave after another, and I grip him tight, shaking, shaking, shaking.
Boone groans, full-body, like the sound gets dragged out of his soul. His thrusts stutter, and then he slams into me one last time, deep, and lets go.
“Fuck—Lark—”
His body jerks, hips locked to mine, and I feel him. Heat floods me, thick and hot, and I moan at the pressure, at the stretch, at the way it feels like he’s giving me all of him.
I wrap my legs around his waist, locking him there. I want him to stay. Want him to live in this moment with me.
Boone’s breathing is shallow against my neck, and he doesn’t move, still buried deep, his body flush to mine.
Like if he lets go, it all disappears. His lips drag over my skin, slow and soft, but then his teeth scrape over my throat.
He sucks hard, like his body wasn’t enough.
He wants to mark me in every way he can.
My body’s still fluttering around him, still reacting, and Boone hums against my skin, low and satisfied. His hands slide up my sides, anchoring him, grounding both of us.
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move to leave me empty. His hips roll forward slightly, the shift subtle but felt, the weight of him pressing deep, my breath catching in my throat.
“You’re mine, Lark,” he murmurs, the words pressing into my skin, like he needs me to feel them as much as hear them. “Always have been.”
A shiver runs through me, my body still wrecked, still pulsing around him, and I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. His face is flushed, his lips swollen, his dark eyes drinking me in like he can’t get enough.
It’s not about the sex, it never has been with us.
It isn’t just about bodies or heat or the way he makes me come undone.
It’s the way we reach for each other when everything else falls away.
The way, in moments like this, we’re not just touching—we’re choosing.
Over and over. Falling into each other because we don’t know how not to.