Chapter 23 #3
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, and before I can even catch my breath, his fingers slide lower, finding the wetness between my legs.
I moan as soft as I can. My pussy is soaking, dripping, possibly a waterfall at this point.
He finally quits teasing me, sliding one huge finger inside me, curling it just right to hit that sweet spot that makes me gasp.
I’m still spasming from the first orgasm, my walls fluttering around him, but he doesn’t stop.
He adds another finger, stretching me wide and deep in a rhythm that’s all his and completely unholy.
The stretch is exquisite, the pressure unbearable, and I’m grinding against him, chasing another chance at whatever he just made me feel.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, tossing my head back.
“Eyes open,” he says.
I try. God, I try. My eyes slowly dart around, barely open—scanning the shadows, but it’s hard to focus when his fingers are working me so perfectly.
“Tristan—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, but his fingers don’t stop. They keep moving, plunging in and out of me, driving me closer and closer to the edge again.
A sharp crack—branch, twig, something—snaps through the quiet. My gaze drops just in time to catch his other hand, reaching carefully for the gun holstered at his side. He pulls it free, the metal glinting in the moonlight, and holds it out and away toward the trees.
“What are you—?” The words tumble out of me, shaky and breathless.
His eyes cut around us, sharp even as his hand doesn’t stop. His voice is low, steady, with a growl meant only for me.
“Don’t move. Just keep quiet for me—I’ve got you.”
His fingers are still inside me, stroking a spot that makes me dizzy, and I’m panting, torn between terror and arousal.
The heel of his palm grinds against my clit, and for a moment the only thing I can make out is the faint flicker of the firepit in the distance.
Until it hits me again, he’s holding a fucking gun, for Christ’s sake.
I should be screaming, but all I can think about is how insanely hot he looks, how powerful, and how damn good he is at multitasking. He’s fixated on me, and I can feel it—but I can see him wrestling with the need to watch the dark out there.
His hand is rough, calloused from God knows what, and it only makes the sensation more intense. I’m trembling but I hold onto him to keep me upright. All I care about is the way he’s working me, the way he’s taking me apart piece by piece.
Somehow out of all the emotions and the overwhelming pleasure, I feel safe with him.
“Fuck, Tristan.”
He manages to give me that slow, dangerous grin. “You moanin’ my name is about to make me come in my damn pants.”
My thighs tighten, and I can feel the heat pooling between my legs.
He’s standing there, tall and fucking lethal.
His broad shoulders are tense beneath his shirt.
One hand gripping the gun, the other—fuck—the other is still buried inside me, his fingers working me in a way that’s almost cruel.
His eyes are shifting back and forth from me to whatever's out there. He’s still holding a goddamn gun while he’s about to make me come harder than I ever have in my life.
The orgasm isn’t just building—it’s fucking demanding. My body isn’t mine anymore—someone else is in control. I can feel the pressure twisting inside me, ready to snap. My thighs tremble, and I know I’m close, so fucking close, but I’m not there yet. Not until I hear it.
Click.
The moment his gun clicks as he cocks it, I go still—breath caught, heart hammering, every nerve on high alert. And I know that if whatever or whoever is out there steps too close, he won't hesitate.
But fuck, that sound—the unmistakable sound of a round being chambered—low, deadly—sends a jolt straight through me, like he’s flipped some hidden switch that intensified the sensation.
“Oh, god yes,” I say, shuddering, thighs clenching, fingers digging into his back like I’m trying to fight my way out of this pleasure—or maybe hold on as long as I can.
“That’s it, baby,” he bites his lip, eyes only focused on me now.
The pleasure is overwhelming and my head rolls back, my back arches, and I cover my mouth to keep myself from screaming—no, howling—as the pure, unrelenting ecstasy drowns me.
The gun—fuck, I almost forgot about it—it’s still there, aimed, just a trigger pull from firing. But I’m not done. Not even close. My clit is still throbbing, swollen and sensitive, and I can’t help myself, I need more.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe out.
“Keep quiet, Sawyer,” he grits through his teeth.
I nod frantically, my fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more.
He presses harder, deeper, and I feel the orgasm building again, a slow, sweet torture that’s going to wreck me completely.
My body is still hypersensitive, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up.
I’m panting now, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and I’m fucking losing all control.
He’s going to make me come for a third time.
There’s a voice from the trees, some idiot saying, “Maybe they’ll let us party.
” Trouble doesn’t falter. His fingers are relentless, pushing me closer and closer to another orgasm, and I know that whoever it is out there isn’t worth his time.
Isn’t worth taking a second away from this.
Even if he pulled the trigger right now, I don’t know if that would phase him enough to stop.
I think the men are still yelling something else, but all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the slick, filthy sound of his fingers sliding in and out of me. My legs are shaking, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. And I don’t want him to stop. Fuck me, I don’t want him to stop, ever.
His voice is like fucking steel when he whispers, “They better get the fuck off my property. All I need is the trespassing excuse to kill a Kennedy.”
How can he multitask this well? And if he's this good with his hands—what is sex like with this man?
There’s silence, then a man mutters, “Fuck it,” followed by another voice. “It’s not worth it tonight. There’s too many people. Let’s go.”
He watches them until they’re gone and then lowers the gun slowly and puts it back into his holster. His focus is completely on me again, his lips press against my neck. “Sorry about that. Now what do you need, darlin’?”
“Tristan, I need to—” I gasp, my voice trembling. “Make me come again.”
He fucking does it. His fingers work me over in a way that’s almost terrifying, and it’s not long before I’m coming apart all over again.
My body arches, my breasts are pressed against his chest, my nipples hard and aching.
He kisses me again, deep and dirty, swallowing my moans as I shudder against him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” I clench around him, my hips jerking uncontrollably.
My body convulses, my pussy clenching tight around his fingers, and I’m coming again—harder this time, longer, more violent.
It’s like every sense and nerve I have is on fire, every inch of me consumed by the burst of flames.
My nails dig into his back, and I’m crying out, as the pleasure rips through me and leaves me shattered.
He covers my mouth to try and hide my scream from the crowd, but I don’t care at this point.
The music is louder now, the laughs are louder, and no one is looking our way.
He leans in, his lips brushing mine. “Good girl,” he whispers before pulling back with that smirk of his.
“Holy mother of socks,” I say, as I fall back on his truck bed, limp and panting, my body trembling with the aftershocks.
I’m a fucking mess—my legs barely able to move.
He straightens up and grabs his beer again. “Darlin’, you’ve got no idea what you’ve got comin’.”
And fuck, I believe him.