17. Jessica #2
He broke the kiss. His mouth dropped to my throat.
My jaw. The spot below my ear where his stubble scraped, and my fingers dug into his hair.
Lower — his lips dragging down to my collarbone, his tongue pressing into the hollow at the base of my throat.
Lower — his mouth closing around my nipple, his tongue circling the peak, the pull of his lips firm and slow and deliberate.
"Fuck, Hunt —"
He hummed against my breast. The vibration shot through my nipple and down into my belly, and my hips bucked against him.
His hand found my other breast — his palm rough against the wet skin, his fingers rolling the nipple, and the dual sensation of his mouth and his hand made my vision blur and my legs tighten around his waist.
"Lie back." His voice against my skin. Quiet. An instruction, not a request.
I lay back on the blanket. The stars wheeled above me. He climbed into the truck bed, knelt between my legs, and looked down at me. The expression he wore was focused and unhurried and full of intent, and the focus was directed entirely at me.
His hands found the waistband of my underwear. His fingers hooked the elastic. He pulled them down — slow, his knuckles dragging against the outside of my thighs, his eyes following the path of his hands. The cotton peeled away, and the night air hit the wet heat between my legs, and I shivered.
He tossed the underwear off the tailgate. His hands gripped my thighs — thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside, firm, spreading me open. He lowered himself between my legs. His breath drifted across the slick skin, and my fingers gripped the blanket.
“Hunt…please —"
"I've got you."
His mouth found me.
The first stroke of his tongue was flat and broad and slow — the full length of me — and the sound that tore out of my throat went into the trees and the sky and the dark.
His hands tightened on my thighs and held me open.
His tongue circled my clit — slow, deliberate passes, each one tighter, each one pressing harder.
My hips bucked, and he held them down. My fingers found his hair, gripping hard, and he groaned against me.
The vibration of the groan against my clit made my thighs shake.
He slid one finger inside me. Slow. Curled it.
Found the spot and pressed, and my whole body jerked, and a sound came out of me that was closer to a scream than a moan.
His tongue kept working my clit — steady, relentless, the rhythm his — while his finger stroked inside me, and the combination was building something enormous and inevitable in my core.
"Oh God — right there — Hunt, don't stop —"
He added a second finger. The stretch. The fullness. His fingers curled and pressed against the spot while his tongue circled and flicked. I was panting, my heels digging into the truck bed, and the wave was right there — right at the crest —
His free hand slid up my body. Found my breast. His fingers closed around my nipple and twisted — not gentle, sharp — and the shock of it collided with the pressure of his tongue and his fingers, and everything detonated.
My back arched so hard my shoulders came off the blanket.
My thighs clamped around his head. I came against his mouth with his name in my throat — loud, broken, both syllables torn loose — and his tongue kept going through the aftershocks, each pulse drawing another cry, another clench, until I was trembling and gasping and my fingers were numb in his hair.
He kissed the inside of my thigh. Pressed his lips against the crease where my leg met my hip.
Kissed his way back up my body — my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breast, my collarbone, my throat, my jaw.
He settled over me on his forearms. His mouth found mine, and I could taste myself on his tongue, and the taste of us together made my hips lift against his.
"I need you inside me." My voice was raw. Shaking. "Please, Hunt."
He reached down. His boxers came off — the wet cotton peeling away, kicked off the tailgate — and he settled between my legs.
Naked. The moonlight on his shoulders. The hard length of him pressing against my inner thigh.
Hot. Thick. I reached for him. My hand wrapped around his cock, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth — sharp, hissing — and his hips pushed forward into my grip, and his forehead dropped against mine.
"Jess." Rough. Strained. His breath ragged on my mouth. "You sure?"
I guided him to my entrance. Pressed the tip against the slick heat. Both of us shuddered at the contact.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He pushed in.
Slow. My body opened around him — the stretch, the thick fullness, the pressure of him filling me inch by inch.
My breath left me in a long, shaking exhale.
My nails raked down his back. His jaw was clenched.
His arms were rigid. His eyes were on mine — dark, intense, holding my gaze while he pressed deeper.
I watched his lips part and his brow crease, awestruck.
The breath he let out when his hips met mine was shaking and reverent and wrecked.
He held still. Full. Deep. His arms trembling. My body pulsing around him, adjusting to the size of him. His heart hammering against mine. My heart hammering against his. Both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, neither of us moving.
"You feel —" His voice broke. He swallowed. Tried again. "Jess, you feel —"
"I know." My hand found his jaw. My thumb traced his lower lip. "Move, Hunt."
He pulled back. Slow. The drag of him against my walls made my breath stutter and my fingers dig into his back. He pushed back in — one long stroke, deep — and my hips rose to meet him, and we both groaned, and his mouth found mine and swallowed the sound.
He found his rhythm. Deep, steady strokes — pulling back, pressing home.
Each thrust deliberate. Each one landed with a precision that found the spot every time, and the pressure built and coiled in my belly, tightening with each stroke.
His mouth was on my neck. My jaw. My ear.
His breath harsh against my skin between kisses.
His hand gripped my hip — fingers digging in, angling me upward.
The new angle was so devastating I cried out and locked my legs around his waist to pull him in deeper.
"Harder." The word came out of me ragged and desperate. "Hunt — harder —"
His pace shifted. The strokes deeper. His hips snapping against mine with a force that rocked the truck on its suspension.
The sound of his body meeting mine — wet, rhythmic, obscene in the quiet night.
My moans climbing higher. His groans dropping lower.
His mouth against my ear and his breath breaking apart.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Jess." Rough. Wrecked. The words pressed into the skin below my ear like something he'd been holding for years and couldn't hold anymore. "So beautiful. Every part of you."
Something in me broke wide open. My eyes stung. His hand slid between our bodies, and his thumb found my clit — slick, swollen — and pressed. Circled. His hips driving into me while his thumb worked me. The dual sensation was too much. My body was climbing and climbing and the top was right there —
"Come for me." His lips against my ear. His thumb pressing harder. His cock buried deep. "Let go, Jess. I've got you."
I let go.
The orgasm ripped through me — white-hot, consuming, my entire body seizing around him.
My back bowed off the blanket, and my legs clamped, and I clenched around his cock in waves, and his name tore out of my mouth — raw, loud, both syllables.
He drove deep and held, and his body went rigid above me, and the groan that came out of him was guttural and long and pressed against my throat.
I could feel him pulsing inside me — thick, hot, each throb matching my own aftershocks.
His arms gave out. His weight landed on me — heavy, solid, his face in my neck, his breath searing my skin.
My arms wrapped around his back and held, and my legs stayed around his waist, and we lay there heaving and trembling and wrecked.
The frogs started up again. The creek murmured. The truck ticked as the engine cooled.
His lips found the spot below my ear. A kiss — soft, slow, tender.
Then another on my jaw. My cheek. The corner of my mouth.
Small, careful kisses that landed on my skin like apologies for the roughness and gratitude for the surrender and something else underneath both that made my throat tight and my eyes sting.
"Hey," I whispered.
He lifted his head. His face above mine in the moonlight — his lips swollen, his eyes dark and soft, his hair wrecked from my hands.
"Hey." The corner of his mouth pulled. The almost-smile. The one that belonged only to me.
"You're pretty good at that."
The almost-smile broke into the real thing. The grin — rare, full, the one that cracked his whole face open. "Pretty good?"
"Don't fish for compliments. It's unbecoming."
He laughed. Low, quiet, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine.
He dropped his forehead against mine and we laughed.
We were lying in the bed of his pickup truck naked and tangled and laughing and the laughter was the best part.
The laughter was the part that made this us, not just the heat, not just the sex, but the thing underneath it that had been there since we were kids.
The ease. The fit. The way everything between us — even this, especially this — felt like coming home.
His heartbeat was under my ear. Steady.
My head was on his chest. The blanket pulled over us. His arm around me. His fingers moving through my hair in slow passes — absent, gentle, the touch of a man holding something he'd been reaching for his whole life.
My body was liquid. Every muscle slack. The tenderness between my legs humming. His hand in my hair the gentlest thing I'd ever felt. The night air warm on the parts of me that were exposed. Cool on the parts pressed against him.
"Hunt."
Quiet. His name in my mouth. Familiar. Worn. Different now — carrying the weight of the sound he'd made when he came and the feel of him inside me and the kisses he'd pressed across my face after.
"Jess."
Low. Warm. His fingers still in my hair.
I pressed my face into his chest. Breathed him in — creek water and sweat and underneath both, him. My hand was flat on his stomach. His breathing moving through my palm. His ribs expanding and contracting under my cheek.
The stars pressed down. Thick. Bright. The creek murmured. The frogs pulsed. I was full — warm, pressing, three letters sitting behind my ribs. Right at the surface. Right at the back of my teeth.
I held it. My fingers curled against his stomach. His hand tightened in my hair. The word stayed where it was — warm, alive, pressing — and I held it with both hands the way he held things. Patiently. Knowing it was there. Letting it sit until it was ready.
My breathing slowed. His chest rose and fell. My heart was easing toward his rhythm — closer, closer — finding it, matching it, settling.
I closed my eyes. His heartbeat under my ear. His arms around me. The stars above us and the creek beside us and the blanket underneath us and nothing else in the whole wide world.
I fell asleep.
And much later — minutes or hours, the moon had shifted — I surfaced just enough to feel his fingers still moving in my hair. His chest still rising and falling. His arms still holding. His eyes still open, watching the stars.
He hadn't moved. Not an inch. And my body, pressed against his, had never felt more held.