Chapter 17
Reagan woke to the smell of coffee and the slide of a warm hand up her thigh.
"Mmm." She kept her eyes closed, stretching into the touch. "What time is it?"
"Early." Channel's voice was rough with sleep, his body pressed against her back, his hand continuing its slow exploration. "Too early to get up."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Waking you up." His fingers traced the crease where her thigh met her hip, teasing. "There's a difference."
She rolled in his arms, facing him. His hair was a disaster, pillow-creased and sticking up in three directions. His eyes were heavy-lidded, soft with morning and something else. Something heated.
Three days they'd been doing this. Three days of sharing his cabin, his bed, his body. And every morning, he looked at her like he still couldn't believe she was there.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi yourself."
"You made coffee."
"I made coffee." His hand slid around to cup her ass, pulling her flush against him. "But I'm thinking we should let it get cold."
Reagan laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as his hips rolled against hers. He was hard—fully, impressively hard—and the thin fabric of her underwear was doing absolutely nothing to hide how much she wanted him.
"We have things to do today," she managed.
"Name one."
"I need to call my employees. Check on the—"
He kissed her, swallowing the rest of her sentence. His tongue swept into her mouth, lazy and thorough, and Reagan forgot what she'd been saying. Forgot everything except the weight of him, the taste of him, the way his hands were pushing up the shirt she'd stolen from his dresser.
"Tyler," she breathed when he pulled back.
His whole body shuddered. He loved when she used his real name—she'd learned that their first night together, learned it again every time since. It cracked something open in him, made the careful prospect disappear and left just the man underneath.
"Say it again."
"Tyler." She pulled his shirt over her head, baring herself to him. "Tyler, please."
He groaned and lowered his mouth to her breast.
Reagan arched into the sensation, her hands fisting in his hair. His tongue traced circles around her nipple, teasing, tormenting, making her writhe beneath him before he finally—finally—drew it into his mouth and sucked.
"Oh God—"
"Not God." He switched to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. "Just me."
"Cocky."
"Accurate."
She laughed again, but the laugh turned into a moan as his hand slipped between her thighs. His fingers traced the damp cotton of her underwear, pressing just enough to make her hips buck.
"You're wet," he said, satisfaction dripping from every word.
"I've been wet since you touched my leg."
"Yeah?" He pushed the fabric aside, his fingers finding her slick and wanting. "That fast?"
"That's what you do to me."
Something fierce crossed his face. Possessive. Claiming. He stroked her once, twice, watching her face, reading every reaction.
"This is mine," he said quietly. "You're mine. I'm never going to get tired of that."
"Prove it."
He slid one finger inside her, then two, and Reagan stopped thinking.
Her hips moved on their own, riding his hand, chasing the pleasure he was giving her. He knew her body now—knew exactly where to touch, how fast, how deep. Three days of learning each other, and he played her like an instrument.
"More," she gasped. "I need—"
"I know what you need."
He shifted down her body, kissing a trail down her stomach, and Reagan realized what he intended just before his mouth replaced his hand.
The first stroke of his tongue made her see stars.
"Tyler—God—"
He licked into her like she was something delicious, something he'd been craving. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place while his mouth worked magic. Reagan grabbed the headboard, the sheets, anything to anchor herself as the pleasure built and built and built—
"I'm going to—"
"Let go." His voice vibrated against her. "I've got you."
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave, and Channel didn't stop—kept licking, kept stroking, kept pulling every last tremor from her body until she was boneless and gasping.
He crawled back up her body with a self-satisfied smile.
"Good morning," he said.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"No," she admitted, pulling him down for a kiss. She could taste herself on his lips. "I really don't."
His hips settled between her thighs, and she felt him—hard and ready, pressing against her entrance. Her body clenched with wanting, already primed for more despite the orgasm still echoing through her.
"Your turn," she said.
"Ladies first was the warm-up." He reached between them, positioning himself. "This is the main event."
He pushed inside her, slow and deep, and they both groaned.
Three days, and she still wasn't used to this feeling—the stretch, the fullness, the way he fit inside her like he'd been made for it. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, wanting all of him.
"Fuck, Reagan—" His voice cracked. "You feel—"
"Move."
He moved.
Not the desperate, adrenaline-fueled pace of their first times. This was something different. Slow, deep strokes that built the pleasure gradually. His eyes locked on hers, watching every expression, adjusting his angle until he found the spot that made her cry out.
"There," she gasped. "Right there—"
He gave her what she asked for. Over and over, hitting that perfect spot, his thumb finding her clit and circling in time with his thrusts. Reagan dug her nails into his back and held on.
"I love you." The words spilled out without permission. "Tyler, I love you."
His rhythm stuttered. His eyes went wide, then soft, then fierce.
"Say it again."
"I love you."
He kissed her, deep and consuming, and his pace increased. Faster. Harder. The bed rocked beneath them, the headboard hitting the wall, and Reagan didn't care who heard.
The second orgasm hit her without warning—a wave that crashed through her whole body, making her clench around him. She felt him follow, felt him pulse inside her, heard him groan her name like a prayer.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, sweat-slicked and tangled.
"Well," Channel said eventually. "That's one way to start the morning."
"Better than coffee."
"Nothing's better than coffee." He kissed her forehead. "But that was close."
Reagan laughed, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. The sun was streaming through the window now, painting golden stripes across the bed. Somewhere outside, the compound was waking up—bikes starting, voices calling, the rhythm of daily life.
But in here, in this cabin, in this bed, it was just them.
"We should get up," she said.
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
Channel's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining. She could feel his heartbeat slowing beneath her palm, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"I love you too," he said quietly. "In case that wasn't clear."
"It was clear." She smiled against his skin. "But I like hearing it."
"Then I'll keep saying it." He rolled them over, pinning her beneath him with a grin. "After round two."
"We don't have time for round two."
"We'll make time."
His mouth found her neck, and Reagan stopped pretending she wanted to do anything other than exactly this.
The coffee got cold.
Neither of them cared.