Chapter 28 Caught Between Sunrise And Sin #2
"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he rasps, pausing to bite the inside of my thigh, then dragging his tongue back through my folds to my clit with single-minded focus.
I gasp, the sound so sharp it feels like it might leave a mark.
I make some desperate, pleading noise—words have abandoned me in favor of raw sensation, everything narrowed down to the way he circles me, the way his gaze keeps flicking up to watch my face every few seconds, like he needs to see what he's doing to me.
I try to say his name, but all that emerges is a ragged whimper.
The world telescopes to a pinpoint of sensation; the sunrise, his hands holding me, the breeze lifting my curls, the thick smell of earth and salt and skin.
I want to melt into the ground. I want to sob. I want to scream so loud the whole damn town hears.
He slides a finger into me, then two, and the stretch burns so sweet I forget how to stand upright.
My knees buckle, and he growls.
"That's it, Hazel, take it. Take all of it," and I do, I do, I couldn't stop if I tried.
There's no warning — my orgasm crashes through me with the force of a forest fire, wild and reckless, bright white incineration that leaves me gasping and clinging, thighs clamped around his ears, probably suffocating him, but he just keeps going, tongue and fingers coaxing every last drop from me until I'm sobbing his name in broken syllables.
Slick gushes down my legs, soaking him, and I feel ruined, shattered, put together again in a way no one else has ever managed. The wind howls around us like a cheer, crows circling overhead in wild agreement.
He doesn't let me fall, rising swiftly to catch me, his mouth glistening with evidence of my pleasure.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, kissing me deeply so I taste myself on his tongue.
Before I can catch my breath, he lifts me effortlessly, setting me on the edge of the wooden rail fence—the one overlooking the breathtaking drop to the valley below.
The risk makes my heart race faster, the wind tugging at my dress as he positions himself between my thighs.
"Ready for more?" he asks, eyes locked on mine, intense and loving.
I nod, whispering, "Yes," and he doesn't hesitate to tease my entrance, having pulled out his cock that’s thick, hard, and veiny.
He doesn’t make me wait.
That’s the first thing — there’s no smug teasing, no arrogant Alpha games about getting me right to the brink and then pulling away to taunt me for being so easy, so slick, so obviously desperate.
Just a big, blunt honesty to the way Luca stares at me, his breathing heavy, pupils blown wide, and his whole body trembling with restraint.
His hands are rough on my thighs, urgent and possessive, still trembling from the force of my last orgasm.
I can see the way his own need is almost painful—his cock out and hard, flushed purple at the tip, veins thickly ridged down the shaft, and every inch of it slick with precum that beads at the tip and trails down, collecting in the crease of his hand.
I feel my mouth actually water at the sight, even as my cunt pulses, still fluttering from the aftershocks.
I want to say something clever about the situation—about being bent bare-assed over a mountainside, about the birds and the bees and the crows as an audience, about monster dildos and how, for once, I finally get to live my most ridiculous paperback fantasy—but my brain is short-circuited by the sight of him.
I watch in admiration and breathlessness, watching the precum gather on the tip and ooze down his shaft impatiently.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve fucked an Alpha, using plastic toys and clit teasers to hold me over.
To finally have a cock in me momentarily, a big one that reminds me of monster dildos and how I’ve dreamed of being fucked mercilessly by an actual thick cock and not the unimpressive 5 inches and under squad that Korrin seemed to gather like they’re infinite stones, makes me feel like I won the lottery.
He brings the head of his cock to my entrance, trailing it back and forth through my folds, gathering up the mess he made of me.
It’s almost too much—the bare, raw friction of skin on skin, the way his tip catches at my opening and then slides back, teasing but not cruel, building a steady burn instead of a frantic spark.
I look down, unable to help myself, and watch as he lines himself up with me.
The contrast is obscene; my slick, shiny and pale, his cock thick and dark, the whole thing so lewd I nearly lose it right there. He looks up, catching my eye, and grins—not a cold smirk, but a real, honest grin that shows off his canines, sharp and eager and beautiful.
“You good, Hazel?” he asks, voice softer now, his hand stroking my thigh in reassurance.
A man who actually cares about consent, giving me the chance to run if I suddenly changed my mind…
“Yes,” I whisper, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.
He doesn’t wait.
He thrusts inside me in one slow, relentless motion, every inch stretching me wider than I knew possible. The burn is instant, intense, but it melts in an instant into a pleasure so sharp I bite down on my own bottom lip to keep from screaming his name.
The first thrust is deep, so deep I swear I can feel it in my stomach, and he groans at the sensation, head dropping to rest on my shoulder.
He starts to fuck me in earnest, hard and steady, each thrust rocking my whole body.
The sensation is overwhelming—him filling me completely, the rail creaking slightly under our weight, the sunrise now fully bloomed behind him like a halo. His hands grip my hips, steady and sure, as he fucks me with deliberate strokes, each one building that coil of pleasure again.
Our scents intertwine—my smoked caramel blending with his spiced gingerbread—creating something intoxicating, heady in the mountain air.
He fucks me, slow at first—so excruciatingly steady it’s like he’s trying to burn every second of this sunrise into my bones—but then he gets the rhythm, hips snapping into me faster, harder, until the only things that exist are the creak of the rail and the thick, obscene slap of skin on skin.
The sounds are mortifyingly loud, echoing into the valley below, but I don’t care, not when every thrust sends sparks through me, not when I can feel him, all of him, battering at my insides like he’s determined to never leave.
The mountain air is cold, but I’m burning, flushed everywhere, body arching into every motion like I’m trying to melt him into my DNA.
I’ve never felt so alive. I’ve never felt so full, or so wanted, or so utterly out of my damn mind. I cling to his shoulders, nails biting into muscle, and every time he groans or mutters my name in that feral tone, I feel another coil in my belly get wound tighter.
The world is spinning.
The sunrise is a kaleidoscope of orange and gold and blood, wind screaming past my ears, and all I can smell is salt and sweat and the tangled gorgeous chaos of our pheromones, my caramel and smoke braided with his gingerbread and black coffee.
He’s fucking me like I’m the only thing that matters, like the world could drop out from under us and he’d still be here, still inside me, still chasing this heat.
I want to banter, to throw some snarky line about how much better this is than all the cozy romance novels I used to hide in the flour bins, but every time I try to open my mouth, all that comes out is sobs and curses and these needy, desperate pleas.
My legs are shaking, numb from the cold and the overstimulation, and he’s holding me up, hands splayed on my ass and hips, lifting me up and down on his cock like I’m weightless, like I’m something precious.
I dig my heels into the rail. I taste blood on my lip where I bit it. I don’t even realize I’m crying until he slows for a half-beat and kisses my cheek, tongue flicking away the tear.
“Hazel,” he says, so earnest it cracks something inside me, “I’ve wanted you like this for so fucking long.”
I whimper, the noise almost embarrassing, but he just grins—really grins, like he can’t help it. It’s so open, so vulnerable, I nearly come from that alone.
He fucks me harder then, snapping his hips faster, and it’s almost too much, the way each stroke hits something inside me that makes my vision go white and my toes curl.
I feel him everywhere, the stretch and the fill, the rough scrape of his jeans against my thighs, the press of his chest, and the scratch of his stubble on my shoulder, every molecule of me alive and screaming.
He’s muttering now, low and filthy, words that make me want to climb out of my own skin.
“So fucking tight. So good. Taking me like you were made for it. Look at you, Hazel, fuck, you’re perfect.” I want to mock-scold him for the dirty talk, but it just makes me clench tighter, makes my whole body seize and arch, desperate to show him he’s right.
I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging like a lifeline, and he leans in to kiss me, open-mouthed and messy, teeth clacking and tongues tangling, all saliva and spit and raw, feral hunger.
He’s losing control, and that thought sends a wild thrill through me, because Luca doesn’t lose control. Luca is always the calm, dry-humored, slightly scary twin, the one who looks at the world like it’s a logic puzzle and only rarely lets anyone see the chaos underneath.
But here, now, all that restraint is gone, and he’s just a man, just an Alpha, rutting into me and groaning my name like a prayer.
His knot is starting to swell—I can feel it, thickening at the base, teasing at my entrance every time he bottoms out.
I want it. God, I want it so bad, the feral, animal part of me screaming to be bred and knotted, to be marked as his in the way that makes even my cynical, romance-scorched heart go soft.
I drag my nails down his back, raking him through his shirt, and snarl, “Do it. Knot me, you coward.”