Chapter 21
CINDY
T he festival noise fades to distant static. The maze walls become protective rather than confining. Even the October chill disappears, replaced by heat that starts where his lips meet mine and spreads through every cell of my body.
“You’d better keep it down,” he whispers against my mouth. “Unless you want everyone to hear us.”
I giggle like a teenager, which should be embarrassing but somehow isn’t. “Then maybe we shouldn’t do anything that would make me loud.”
He laughs, low and rumbling, the sound vibrating through his chest where I’m pressed against him. “I never run from danger. Or risks. Especially not when the risk looks like you in this dress.”
Then he’s kissing me again, and this isn’t the desperate hunger from before.
This is deliberate, thorough, like he’s memorizing the exact way our mouths fit together.
His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
I open for him immediately. My hands grip his silver-painted jacket.
He walks me backward until my back hits the hedge wall, the branches giving slightly under my weight.
One of his hands slides into my hair, angling my head for better access, while the other grips my waist. The kiss deepens, becomes something more urgent, more necessary.
I make a sound I’ve never made before that’s needy and desperate, and he swallows it, pressing closer until there’s no space between us.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he whispers when we break for air, both of us panting.
“Since last night. You’ve been struggling, haven’t you?” I murmur.
“You have no fucking idea,” he growls, then his hand comes down on my ass in a light spank that makes my eyes fly wide.
“Hey!”
“Been wanting to do that since you bent over to feed the cat in this dress.”
Before I can respond, he’s lifting me like I weigh nothing, carrying me to where the hay is spread thicker.
The walls tower around us, creating our own private world.
Above, stars scatter across the sky like someone threw diamonds on black velvet.
The moon is almost full, providing enough light to see but not enough to feel exposed.
He sets me down gently on the hay, then shrugs out of his ridiculous silver jacket. He’s wearing nothing underneath, and I’m drooling. His chest is all muscle. Tattoos wind across his skin, dark ink that looks silver in the moonlight.
“Thank God,” he mutters, tossing the jacket aside. “That thing was suffocating me. Spray paint doesn’t breathe.”
Then he’s lying beside me, kissing me again with an intensity that makes my head spin. My hands explore his bare chest, following ink, feeling muscles contract under my touch. He’s so warm, like a furnace, and I press closer, wanting that heat.
“I need you,” I whisper against his mouth, surprising myself with my boldness. “I’ve been thinking about this, about you, constantly.”
“Fuck, Cindy,” he groans.
His hands glide up my thighs under the dress, making me squirm with anticipation. He lifts up my skirt, and his eyes go dark when he sees what I’m wearing underneath.
“Red lace,” he says, his voice turning rough. “Matching your shoes. Beautiful.”
“I thought—I wanted?—”
“They need to come off,” he demands, already hooking his fingers in the sides.
“We shouldn’t—not here?—”
But he’s already tugging them down, and I lift my hips to help because my body has completely disconnected from my brain.
Part of me is screaming that this is too public, too dangerous, but the bigger part that’s been burning for days doesn’t care.
The danger makes this moment better somehow, the possibility of being caught adding an edge.
He tucks the red lace into his pocket with a grin that’s pure masculine satisfaction. “Mine now.”
“Thief,” I accuse, but I’m breathless, already anticipating what comes next.
He kisses my neck, finding that spot that makes me melt, while his fingers trace up my inner thighs. I spread my legs wider without thinking, and he makes this sound of approval that goes straight to my core.
“I can barely hold it together,” I gasp as his fingers inch higher. “You’re teasing me so bad.”
“You want me to touch you higher?” His voice is dark, knowing. “Is that what you’re asking for?”
“You’re pure evil,” I whisper, breath catching on the words.
Holt’s answering grin is slow and wicked, a promise that coils heat low in my stomach. He leans in close, his breath brushing my ear. “You like it,” he murmurs.
Then he touches me, gently at first, just a drag of fingertips closer to my bikini line that sends every nerve to spark awake. The hay rustles beneath me as I arch, trying to chase the warmth he gives and takes away in equal measure.
“Shh,” he says, but the sound isn’t a warning. It’s more like worship disguised as a command.
When his hand slides downward, the first touch of his fingers across my lower lips has me gasping, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp, helpless sound. My whole body responds to him, to the press of his fingertips.
“Look at you,” he whispers, watching my face. “So sweet. So ready.”
I can’t look away. The intensity in his gaze leaves the world tilting, the weight of it a promise and a threat all at once. Each slow stroke pulls me higher as my thighs tremble, and I forget the world beyond his touch.
“Tell me,” he breathes, lips grazing my throat. “Does it feel good?”
“Amazing.” It’s barely a sound, more breath than voice.
He doesn’t rush. His touch is maddening in its slowness, like he wants to memorize the way my body reacts, how I breathe, how I break.
His fingers drag through the slick between my thighs with such careful precision that it borders on cruelty.
Every movement is a tease, never quite enough to push me over, but always circling the edge like he knows exactly what I need and refuses to give it too soon.
My hips lift instinctively, chasing the desire he keeps pulling away. I’m trembling now, muscles drawn tight, every nerve screaming for more. I dig my nails into his shoulders, trying to stable myself, but he only groans like the sting excites him. It makes me feel powerful and undone all at once.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice rough against my throat. “You feel like sin.”
Then his mouth is on my collarbone. When he drags his teeth lightly over the neckline of my dress, the fabric gives a little.
A quiet sound escapes me, half gasp, half invitation.
He follows it, tugging until the material slips lower, releasing my breast. His breath fans across my skin before his mouth closes over my hardened nipple, a slow kiss that makes my whole body tighten.
I moan out, hungry goose bumps covering me.
His tongue flicks over the hard center before sucking it deeper. I cry out, too far gone to care who hears. The scrape of his stubble burns in the best way. Each pull of his mouth on my nipple tugs at something low in my belly.
It’s at this moment that he presses a finger into me, and I shudder, the sensation overwhelming, incredible, leaving me starved for more. Then he pushes a second one in while he sucks down hard on my nipple, not releasing me.
The pressure of his fingers builds and builds, going faster, harder, my hips rocking to meet him, until I feel like I’m going to burst apart in his hands.
When the orgasm breaks, it’s all light and pulse and breath, his name caught in my throat as he holds me through it, murmuring something I can’t quite catch except for one word: beautiful. But I don’t remember a climax ever feeling this intense, this spectacular.
I gasp for air, finally opening my eyes. He’s still watching me. There’s nothing playful left in him now, only hunger in his gaze. And he pulls his fingers out of me, leaving me gasping, needing them back.
“That was incredible.”
He grins mischievously. “Are you ready for more, then?” he asks.
I nod, then find my voice. “I want this. Want you. But… you’ll be my first.”
His whole face changes. The smile that spreads across his features is brilliant, boyish almost, completely at odds with his usual intensity.
“Cindy,” he breathes, kissing me softly. “Thank you for trusting me with this gift. I’ll remember this forever.”
We kiss for long moments, sweet and deep, before I pull back and he says, “We could wait. Until we’re home?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I want this here. Now. I want a story for my first time, something wild and fun. I haven’t felt this alive in so long.”
I’m already reaching for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle while he remains lying beside me in the hay.
He helps, lifting his hips so I can pull his pants down enough.
When I wrap my hand around his huge cock, we both groan.
He’s big, thick and hard and perfect, and I stroke him, loving how it feels.
“Fuck,” he hisses, catching my wrist. “Can’t do that or this’ll be over before it starts.”
“How do you want me?” I ask, feeling brave and reckless.
“On your back,” he instructs, shifting and positioning himself between my thighs, where he kneels before me. “I want to see your face. Want to watch you.”
He stares down at where I’m spread out for him, my skirt up to my waist, and the expression on his face makes me feel like a goddess. “So fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Absolutely delicious.”
He grips his cock and leans in closer, positioning himself at my entrance, the broad head pressing against me. “Ready?”
“Beyond ready,” I breathe.
He pushes in slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. There’s resistance at first, my body adjusting to his size, then a sharp pinch that makes me gasp.
“I’ve got you,” he soothes, staying perfectly still. “Take your time.”
The pain fades quickly, replaced by a fullness that’s overwhelming but incredible. When he’s finally all the way inside, we’re both breathing hard.
“You okay?” he asks, jaw clenched with the effort of staying still.
“Yes. God, yes. Move, please.”