Chapter 6 MAGGIE #3
"It's going to take time for them to come back and try again," I whisper fiercely, my fingers digging into his arms. "Until then, give me this. Give me you."
He searches my eyes for a beat, something raw flickering there, then nods once, sharp and decisive. "Okay."
His mouth crashes back to mine, silencing any lingering doubt, and his fingers make quick work of my jeans, shoving them down my hips along with my underwear in one rough tug.
I kick them off impatiently, exposed now under the dim ranch light, my skin prickling with anticipation as he sheds his own pants, the fabric pooling on the floor.
I reach for him, wrapping my hand around his length—hot, thick, pulsing under my grip—and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into my touch.
I stroke him slowly at first, teasing, watching his jaw clench and his eyes darken, but he doesn't let me lead for long; he pins my wrists gently but firmly above my head, his free hand sliding between my thighs, fingers parting me, finding me slick and aching.
"God, Maggie," he growls against my lips, circling my clit with his thumb in lazy, deliberate strokes that make my breath stutter, my body clenching around nothing, desperate for more.
He dips lower, one finger slipping inside me, then two, curling just right, and I buck against his hand, a whine escaping my throat as he works me open, slow and torturous, building the heat until I'm trembling, so close, teetering on that exquisite edge—but he pulls back, denying me, his touch vanishing just as the coil tightens unbearably.
"Colt, please—" I gasp, frustration twisting deliciously with need, my hips grinding up against empty air.
"Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, and then he's there—nudging against my entrance, teasing with shallow thrusts that promise everything but deliver only the tip, stretching me just enough to make me ache deeper, wilder.
I wrap my legs around him, trying to pull him in, but he holds back, controlling the pace, dragging it out until I'm a writhing mess beneath him, every nerve screaming for release, the denial sharpening every sensation until it borders on agony.
Finally, when I'm begging in broken whispers, he surges forward in one deep, claiming thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and I cry out, the fullness overwhelming, perfect.
"Fuuuuuck, you feel so good." He stills for a moment, letting me adjust, our breaths mingling hot and fast, then he starts moving—slow at first, deliberate rolls of his hips that grind against that spot inside me, building the pressure again, higher this time, torturously close without tipping over.
His mouth finds my breast, tongue flicking over my nipple, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks racing down my spine, and I arch into him, nails raking his back as he picks up speed, thrusts turning harder, deeper, the couch groaning under the force.
The world blurs to this rhythm—his body slamming into mine, sweat-slick skin sliding, the wet sounds of us mingling with our ragged moans.
I'm right there again, hovering on the brink, every muscle taut, and he senses it, shifts his angle, driving in relentlessly until I shatter—climax crashing over me in waves, my walls clenching around him, pulling him under with me as he groans my name, low and broken, spilling hot inside me with a final, shuddering thrust.
We collapse together, his weight a welcome anchor as aftershocks ripple through me. He rolls us slightly, tucking me against his chest, and I nuzzle into the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt of his skin, the dog tags cool against my cheek.
His arms wrap around me, one hand stroking lazy circles on my back, and for a stolen moment, we just breathe—snuggled close on the worn couch, hearts slowing in tandem, the storm outside a distant rumble.
But he's not done.
Before I can fully catch my breath, he shifts, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my lips, then lower—trailing hot and open-mouthed down my body.
Surprise flares through me as he hooks my thigh over his shoulder, settling between my legs with a hunger in his eyes that makes my pulse kick up again.
"Colt—"
"Shh," he says, voice husky, and then his mouth is on me—tongue delving in without preamble, vigorous and unrelenting, lapping at my oversensitive folds like he's starved for it.
I gasp, fingers fisting in his hair as he sucks my clit between his lips, flicking with precise, teasing pressure that reignites the fire low in my belly, faster this time, reckless and intense.
His hands grip my hips, holding me down as I buck against his face, the stubble on his jaw scraping deliciously against my thighs, his groans vibrating through me as he devours me, tongue thrusting inside before circling back, building me up swiftly and mercilessly.
I'm moaning openly now, lost in the wet heat of his mouth, chasing that peak again when—
The perimeter alarm SCREAMS through the moment, harsh and immediate.
We both freeze, hearts pounding for entirely different reasons now.
"Shit, that was faster than I thought." Colt is off me in an instant, reaching for his weapon first and then his clothes, his training overriding everything else.
I'm right behind him, grabbing my clothes and the AR-15, my body shifting from want to combat mode so fast it makes me dizzy.
He's at the window, night vision down. "Multiple vehicles. Headlights off."
"How many?"
"Can't tell yet. At least two. Maybe more."
I move to my position, weapon up, hands steady despite the adrenaline still singing through my veins from what we were doing. My shirt is back on but inside out, my jeans barely buttoned, and I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.
But that doesn't matter now.
More enforcers are coming, and we have to be ready.
"You good?" Colt asks without looking away from the window.
"Yeah." My voice is steadier than it should be. "I'm good."
"No regrets?"
"About which part?"
"Any of it."
I think about his hands on me. His mouth on mine. The way he said my full name like it was something precious instead of something I should be ashamed of.
"No regrets," I tell him. "You?"
"No regrets." He shifts position, counts. "Two vehicles. They're staging again. Shit, three vehicles."
"So we do it again."
"Yeah. We do it again."
I settle into position, sight through the window, and wait.
This time, I'm not just fighting for survival.
I'm fighting for the right to choose. To be whoever I want to be—Magnolia or Maggie or something in between.
I'm fighting because Coulten Harrison chose me over protocol, and I'll be damned if I let the cartel prove him wrong.
The vehicles start moving forward.
"Here we go," Colt says quietly.
And I'm ready.