The Plan and the Truth #3
He walks in, his bare feet silent on the cold floorboards, and sits beside me. The mattress dips deeply under his weight, tilting me toward him. He doesn’t touch me, but the heat radiating from his body is a physical pull, a magnetic current that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
“The plows will be at the gate by eight,” his voice is a low, gravelly scrape in the quiet room. “You can sign the contract and be done with this place.”
“I know,” I whisper, my throat locking on the words, tasting like grief. I turn my head, my eyes tracing the sharp, rugged line of his jaw. “Wyatt. I’m scared.”
“Of the debt?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, searching my face.
“Of leaving,” the confession tears out of me, raw and unpolished. “Of going back to Denver and pretending this week never happened. Of the numbness. I don’t want to go back to the numb.”
Wyatt goes utterly still. For a second, the only sound is the heavy, ragged pull of his breath.
Then, with a low growl that vibrates deep in his chest, his massive hands find my waist. His grip is solid, bruisingly possessive, pulling me effortlessly across the mattress until I am flush against him.
“Then stay. Stay with me.” His mouth crashes down on mine.
It isn’t a gentle kiss; it is a desperate, devouring claim. His lips are hot and hard, parting mine with a raw urgency that drives the freezing mountain air right out of the room. His tongue slides deep, tasting of desperation and heat.
I let out a soft, helpless whimper against his mouth, my hands flying to his neck, burying my fingers in the thick hair at his nape to pull him closer.
There are no rules. No boundaries left to protect us from the inevitable.
Because we are… Inevitable.
We strip our clothes away in a frantic, feverish rush of hands, the fabric tearing free as if our skin is starving for the contact.
When his bare chest meets mine, the collision is a clean, burning shock.
I gasp at the sensation of his hot skin pressing against the sensitive peaks of my breasts.
He presses me back and down into the mattress, his heavy frame anchoring me, his hands framing my face, fingers tangled in my hair as he looms over me in the dark.
“Don’t leave.” His grey eyes burn with a desperate fire. His thumbs swipe across my cheekbones. “Stay, and we’ll figure a way.”
“Wyatt...” My voice breaks, a breathless plea.
He doesn’t let me answer with words. He slides his hands down my sides, his palms hot and calloused against the curve of my hips, lifting me slightly to meet him.
I arch my back, my skin tingling, slick with a fine sheen of sweat. When he aligns himself against my heat, the size and warmth of him make my thighs tremble.
He pushes in.
Slowly, deliberately, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching me open, filling the aching void inside me with a heavy, throbbing fullness that makes my eyes sting.
I let out a soft, ragged sob, my fingers clawing into the hard, flexing muscles of his shoulders as his weight fully pins me.
My legs lock tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, desperate to lock him inside me.
“Look at me,” he groans, his chest heaving against mine as he begins to move.
I open my eyes, locking onto his dark gaze in the shadows.
The rhythm is frantic, driven by the ticking clock of the morning plows.
Every deep, driving thrust of his hips is a physical plea, a silent command to hold on to him, to never let go.
The friction of him sliding inside me, thick and burning, builds a tight, unbearable coil of heat deep in my lower belly.
“I’ve got you,” he mutters against my lips, his breath hot, his pace turning harder, more urgent, lifting my hips to drive even deeper. “I’m not letting go, Bella. Feel me.”
The emotion of it is too much—a hot, crushing wave of pleasure and desperation that rises behind my ribs and breaks.
The coil inside me shatters. I cry out, a sharp, undone sound against his mouth as the release ripples through me in tight, clenching waves.
My body tenses, my internal muscles pulsing, squeezing him in a desperate, clutching embrace that draws a hoarse, ragged shout from his throat.
Wyatt’s grip on my hips tightens. He drives hard, burying himself one final, deep time as his own release takes him. His chest rises and falls rapidly against mine, his heartbeat hammering violently against my ribs as he pours himself into me, locking our bodies together in the dark.
Afterward, the heavy quiet returns, but the cold is gone, replaced by the damp, heavy warmth of our bodies joined together.
I lie spooned against his chest, my back flush against his front. His large, heavy arm is wrapped securely around my waist, his hand splayed over my stomach, sealing in our shared heat.
Holding onto his forearm, my fingers trace the rough, raised scar tissue on his skin. I let the steady thrum of his heartbeat carry me down into sleep.
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m exactly where I belong.