Bonus Chapter Briar
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Briar
I pause in the hallway, ear tilted toward Jeb’s room. Nothing but the faint, rhythmic whir of his night-light fan and the occasional soft rustle of feathers as he dreams. Our chatty African Grey is out cold—no midnight commentary, no cheeky “Pretty bird!” demands. Just silence, finally.
Orion’s waiting at the bedroom doorway, backlit by the low glow of the bedside lamp he left on.
He doesn’t say anything, just extends his hand.
I slide my fingers into his, feeling the familiar roughness of his calluses, the warmth that always seems to live under his skin.
He pulls me gently inside and eases the door shut with his foot. The lock clicks like a promise.
He turns to face me fully, hands rising to cradle my jaw, thumbs stroking the soft skin just under my cheekbones. His eyes search mine for a long heartbeat before he leans in.
The first kiss is slow, almost careful—like he’s savoring the taste of me after a long day apart even though we’ve been in the same house all evening.
His lips brush mine once, twice, then part them with a gentle pressure.
His tongue slips inside, stroking mine in lazy, deliberate circles.
I taste the faint bitterness of the Malbec we shared earlier, the warmth of his mouth, the way his breath catches when I suck lightly on his tongue.
My hands find the hem of his faded gray T-shirt. I slide them underneath, palms gliding up the planes of his stomach, feeling the faint tremor that runs through him when my nails drag lightly over his skin. He groans into my mouth—low, rough—and the sound settles hot and heavy between my legs.
“God, Briar,” he murmurs against my lips, breaking the kiss only long enough to speak. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I smile, small and secret. “Show me.”
He does.
His mouth moves to my jaw, then the sensitive spot just below my ear.
He kisses there first—soft, open-mouthed—then grazes with his teeth, just enough to make me shiver.
His hands slip under my tank top, pushing the fabric up inch by torturous inch.
Calloused fingertips trace the curve under my breasts, then higher, thumbs brushing the tight peaks of my nipples through the thin lace of my bra.
He circles them slowly, deliberate pressure that makes my breath hitch.
I arch into his touch, impatient. “Orion…”
“Not yet,” he whispers, voice gravel-rough.
He pulls the tank top over my head, tosses it somewhere behind him, then reaches behind me to unhook my bra with one practiced flick.
The straps slide down my arms; he catches the bra before it falls, drawing it away slowly, letting the lace drag over my sensitized skin.
He looks at me then—really looks—eyes dark and reverent.
My nipples are already hard from the cool air and his earlier teasing.
He lowers his head and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling slow, wet circles around the peak before he sucks, gentle at first, then harder, pulling a soft moan from my throat.
His hand cups the other breast, thumb flicking back and forth over the neglected nipple in perfect time with his mouth.
I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him against me as heat coils tighter in my belly.
He switches sides, giving the other the same slow, thorough attention—teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly, tongue soothing the faint ache afterward.
My hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction, but he’s still fully clothed and maddeningly patient.
I tug at his shirt. “Off. Now.”
He chuckles against my skin, the vibration traveling straight to my core, then straightens long enough to yank the T-shirt over his head.
I drink him in: the broad shoulders, the scatter of freckles across his collarbone, the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, the faint scar on his left pec that I’ve kissed a thousand times.
I lean forward and press my mouth to that scar, tasting warm skin and the faint salt of him.
My tongue traces upward, slow and deliberate, circling one flat nipple before I suck it between my lips.
He swears softly, hands fisting in my hair—not pulling, just anchoring himself—as his hips jerk forward. I smile against his chest and give the other nipple the same treatment, scraping my teeth lightly, then soothing with slow licks until his breathing turns ragged.
“Fuck, baby…you’re killing me.”
“Good,” I whisper, nipping the skin just above his heart.
He growls low in his throat and walks me backward until my calves hit the mattress.
I sit; he drops to his knees between my legs, hands sliding up my thighs to hook into the waistband of my sleep shorts and underwear.
He peels them down together, slow enough that I feel every inch of fabric dragging over my skin.
When they’re off, he spreads my thighs wider with gentle pressure, settling his shoulders between them.
For a long moment he just looks—eyes tracing the slick folds, the way I’m already glistening for him. His thumbs part me gently, exposing my clit, and I feel the rush of cool air followed by the heat of his exhaled breath.
Then his mouth is on me.
He starts with soft, open kisses along my inner thighs, working inward in lazy spirals that make me squirm.
When he finally reaches my center, he licks one long, slow stripe from entrance to clit, tongue flat and warm.
My hips lift off the bed; he presses me back down with one big hand on my hip, the other sliding up to lace his fingers with mine.
He squeezes once—grounding me—then focuses on my clit with devastating precision.
Slow circles at first, the tip of his tongue flicking lightly, then broader strokes, flattening against me and dragging up in steady rhythm.
Every few passes he sucks gently, pulling the swollen bud between his lips, rolling it with his tongue until my thighs tremble around his head.
I’m panting now, free hand clutching the sheets.
He slides one finger inside me—then two—curling them upward in that perfect come-here motion that makes my toes curl.
He strokes that spot in time with his tongue, slow and relentless, building the pressure until I’m rocking against his face, chasing it.
“Orion—please—”
He hums against me, the vibration ripping a broken moan from my throat. His fingers speed up just a fraction; his tongue presses harder, flicking faster. The coil in my belly winds tighter, tighter—
I come with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs clamping around his ears as pleasure crashes through me in bright, pulsing waves. He doesn’t stop—gentle licks now, soft kisses against my oversensitive folds—until the aftershocks fade and I’m trembling, boneless.
When he finally lifts his head, his lips and chin are shiny, eyes dark with hunger. He crawls up my body, kissing me deep so I taste myself on his tongue—salty-sweet and filthy. I moan into his mouth, hands fumbling between us to shove his boxers down.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the head already slick. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, thumb circling the bead of pre-come at the slit. He drops his forehead to mine, breath harsh.
“Briar…”
I guide him to my entrance, slick and swollen, and he pushes in one long, slow glide.
We both groan at the stretch, the heat, the perfect way he fills me. He stills when he’s seated deep, letting me adjust, letting us both feel every inch of connection. His arms bracket my head; I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
Then he starts to move—long, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive place inside me. I meet him stroke for stroke, nails scoring lightly down his back, hips lifting to take him deeper.
The rhythm builds, faster, harder. His hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit again, rubbing tight circles that make me clench around him. His thrusts turn erratic, hips snapping, breath coming in harsh pants against my neck.
“Come with me,” I whisper, voice wrecked.
He buries his face in the crook of my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin, and drives deep one last time—grinding, pulsing hot inside me as he comes with a low, broken moan.
The feel of him triggers my second release. I shatter around him, walls fluttering, thighs shaking, pleasure rolling through me in heavy, liquid waves until I’m trembling and gasping beneath him.
He stays inside me after, softening slowly, pressing soft kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my eye where tears of overstimulation slipped free.
“Love you,” he murmurs, voice raw.
I turn my face into his neck, breathing him in—sweat, cedar, us. “Love you.”
We stay tangled, hearts slowing together, the streetlamp glowing faintly through the blinds.
Somewhere down the hall, Jeb dreams on.
And here, in the quiet dark, it’s just us—warm, sated, and perfectly home.