BOONE #4
“C’mon, sweetheart,” I whisper. “Use that pretty mouth. I want to hear you beg for it.”
Because the second she does? I’m giving her everything.
“Tell me what you want, baby.” I brush my lips against her ear. “Tell me how bad you need it.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, pressing harder against my hand like her body’s already answered for her. Her fingers tighten at the back of my neck, tangling in my hair and yanking just hard enough to make my breath catch.
“Your fingers,” she gasps, barely audible.
I grin against her mouth, cocky and already so far gone for her. “You want my fingers to do what, sweetheart?”
For a second, she hesitates. Just long enough to make me think she might shy away from it. But then she tugs on my hair again, harder this time, and her voice comes out low and wrecked.
“Fuck me with them, Boone.”
Jesus. That does it.
“Impatient little thing,” I murmur, and slide my fingers deep into her, slow but firm. She gasps into my mouth, her body tensing, her nails digging into the back of my neck.
“So damn tight,” I rasp. “And already dripping for me.”
She moans, her head falling to the side, her throat bare and begging. I drag my mouth down her neck, biting just hard enough to hear her gasp. My fingers curl, hitting the spot I know will make her legs shake, and sure enough—there it is. Her thighs clench, her breath turns ragged.
“You like that?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Like the way my fingers fuck you?”
She nods, but I want more. I press my thumb against her clit, circling slow, teasing.
“Use your words, baby.”
“Yes,” she moans. “Feels so fucking good.”
“Yeah?” I press deeper, harder, relentless now. “You gonna come for me, Lark?”
She doesn’t answer—just moans, head falling forward until her forehead’s against mine, her whole body trembling like she’s seconds from breaking.
“Let me have you like this,” I breathe. “No walls. No hiding. Just you.”
Her grip tightens around my neck, thighs locking around me, and then she’s falling apart—moaning my name, shaking against me, wrecked in the most beautiful way I’ve ever seen.
And fuck me if I don’t want to keep her just like this. Every day. Every night. Mine. Always.
She’s still panting, her body soft and pliant, her lashes heavy as she looks at me like she’s trying to figure out how the hell she let it get this far. Or maybe how she didn’t let it happen sooner.
Her head drops against my shoulder, her breath still coming in quick, uneven bursts. I pull my fingers from her, gliding them through the warm, dripping evidence of how badly she wanted this before bringing them to my lips, sucking them clean.
She watches me, dazed, her blue-green eyes dark and hazy with pleasure.
Her skin’s flushed, her pulse still racing under her jaw. And I swear, I’ve never seen anything as hot as her like this—head tilted back, her eyes half-lidded and sexy, her lips swollen and glistening. She’s a whole storm in a body I’d gladly get caught in again and again.
I curl my hand behind her neck, thumb stroking beneath her chin until she looks at me.
“You still with me, Lark?”
She doesn’t answer—just kisses me. Rough, deep, hungry, tasting herself as she does.
Her nails bite into my shoulder, her hips shifting like she’s already ready for round two, and hell if I’m not right there with her.
My hands move to her cup her ass, gripping tight as I press her body tighter against mine.
I’m hard—so hard it’s fucking unbearable—and she feels it, every thick inch grinding against where she’s already soaked for me. Her gasp rips straight into my mouth, breath hitching as I rock into her, slow and filthy, like I’ve got all damn night to ruin her.
My hand slides up, slipping under the band of her sports bra, fingers dragging over the warm swell of her breast. The second I feel how soft she is, how tight her nipple is beneath my palm, my cock jerks against her, aching with the need to be inside her.
She whimpers, hips rolling, chasing the friction, and I bite out a curse against her throat.
Fuck, she’s killing me.
I could take her right here. Fast. Dirty. With that look on her face and my name still rasping from her throat.
“Boone—”
She says it like a warning, like a plea, and I’m ready to answer both.
I lean in, brushing my mouth over hers, teasing. “Think you can handle more?”
She nods before I even finish the question. Not even a pause.
That’s all I need.
I slide my hands to her thighs, gripping tight, ready to carry her straight to her bed and take my time making her come apart all over again.
I’ve got the image locked in my head—her spread out on the mattress, hair everywhere, nails in my back, legs shaking as I bury my face between her thighs and—
“Mom?”
The voice slices through the moment like a damn chainsaw. We both freeze.
“I can’t find my science folder!” Hudson yells from upstairs. “I need it for school tomorrow!”
She blinks fast, coming back to herself like she just snapped out of a dream. Her eyes are wide, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed—and her voice is rough when she answers, like she’s still trying to remember how to talk.
“I’ll be up in a minute!” she calls, forcing the words out with a tone that almost sounds normal. Almost.
Then her gaze swings back to mine, mortified. Turned on. Breathless.
I bite back a groan and press my forehead to hers, trying not to laugh. Trying not to lose my damn mind.
“I was two seconds from being inside you,” I murmur, brushing some of her hair back from her face. “You know that, right?”
Her hand flattens against my chest, and she pushes.
Not hard. Not like she’s angry. Just enough that the space between us stretches—just enough that I feel the shift before she even says a word.
Her eyes drop, lashes low, and when she looks up at me again, it’s different.
Colder. Clearer. Like she just remembered where we are and who we are and how many reasons there are for this to go wrong.
I know that look.
She’s slipping.
“I can’t…” she starts. She shakes her head like it’ll erase what we just did. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
The air tightens around us.
I blink, slow. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”
“That was a minute ago,” she fires back, grabbing her hair and pulling it into some half-twist like she needs something to do with her hands. “Before I remembered my twelve-year-old is upstairs and you’re—” She stops herself, lips pressing into a tight line. “This is messy, Boone.”
Yeah. No shit.
“Lark—”
She climbs off the counter, her chin tucked like if she doesn’t look at me, none of this happened.
I move to block her path, but she shoves past me anyway—shoulder catching mine just enough to make it sting.
“Lark,” I say again, catching her wrist before she gets two steps away.
She stops, spine going rigid. But she doesn’t turn. Not yet.
“Lark. Please,” I repeat, softer now.
She turns. Slowly. And when her eyes meet mine, they’re full of heat, but not the kind I want. It’s not want anymore—it’s guilt. Regret. The wall going back up, brick by damn brick.
But her eyes still get me.
The same blue, ringed with green, that I’ve known my whole life.
The same eyes that used to squint at me through the sun-drenched summers of our childhood, full of laughter as we raced across the ranch.
The same ones that locked onto mine when we were teenagers, tangled together in the front seat of my truck with slick skin, her nails dragging down my back, leaving little half-moon marks like she was trying to etch herself into me.
She’s seeing it, too. I can tell.
For a split second, it’s like we’re standing in all those memories at once, layered over each other, stretching from then to now. Her gaze flickers, something unspoken flashing through it.
“I can’t do this,” she whispers, her voice tight as she pulls her hand from mine.
I just stand there, hand still half-raised, like I’m holding on to something that’s already gone.
And I feel it—this tight, hollow ache opening wide in my chest. Not because she stopped.
Not even because I didn’t see it coming, but because I did .
Because part of me knew she’d pull away again.
Knew that no matter how close we got, there’d be a line she couldn’t let me cross.
Still, I let myself believe for a second that maybe this time was different.
That maybe I wasn’t the mistake she keeps trying not to make again.
I don’t want to go back to pretending I’m fine without her, like this didn’t just crack me open. I want to reach out, pull her back in, say something that makes her stay.
I catch her wrist before she can walk away, my grip firm but gentle. “Why?”
She stares at me, breathing hard. For a second, her shoulders stiffen. “I can’t be with someone who could leave me again, Boone.”
Her voice wavers just enough to gut me.
She shakes her head, like she’s trying to clear something out of it, like she’s trying to keep herself from slipping back under whatever spell had her pressed up against me just seconds ago.
“I need to be with someone who stays,” she says, voice quieter now but no less firm. “Someone who chooses me. Every day. No matter what.”
Her throat bobs with a swallow, her hands curling into fists, like she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“I can’t do this if I’m always waiting for you to walk away again. And I think a part of me always is.”
It breaks my fucking heart. Watching her shut down, watching this slip through my fingers again, knowing I’d take anything she’d give— anything —but she won’t give me her. Not fully. Maybe she never will again.
Before I can say a word, she slips out of my grip.
Gone.
She’s already halfway up the stairs, her footsteps quick—too quick. Like if she moves fast enough, I won’t have the chance to stop her. To say something that would make her stay.
And maybe she’s right.