4. Suri
SURI
I knew what I was doing when I got in that boat.
I’d known on the walk down to the outfitter, sandals in one hand, the evening still warm and the honeysuckle already on the air before I could even see the river.
I’d known when he handed me the paddle without a word, and I took it without making a thing of it.
I’d known in the quiet bend when I leaned across the canoe and kissed him.
I wasn’t pretending otherwise.
The canoe held still in the quiet water, the current barely working under the hull.
The south bank was close enough that I could see the hemlock roots holding up the soil and the honeysuckle coming all the way down to the waterline.
The river moved beneath us as Kyron Gibbs looked at me like I was worth the time it took to see.
I’d kept people at a careful distance my whole life.
I was very good at it. I knew exactly how to be warm enough that no one noticed the wall, and how to fill conversation with enough surface that no one thought to look for what was underneath it.
It had never felt like a strategy. It had just felt like how I was.
He’d taken that apart in a few days without trying.
I didn’t wait for words. I kissed him again, harder this time, tasting river air and heat on his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to pick up the paddle and turn the canoe toward the south bank with a few quiet, deliberate strokes—no wasted motion, no announcement, like everything else he did.
When the canoe nosed into the soft mud, he stepped out first, water swirling around his river sandals, and offered me his hand.
I took it. My own sandals sank into the soft, root-woven earth as I climbed onto the bank.
The honeysuckle curtained us from the main channel, but the open sky still arched overhead and the river whispered past, loud enough to cover small sounds but not loud enough to hide us if anyone drifted by.
The thrill of it shivered down my spine.
He pulled me against him, one big hand sliding under the hem of my tank top to press warm against my lower back. “You sure?” he murmured against my mouth.
“I knew what I was doing when I got in that boat,” I whispered back. My fingers curled into his T-shirt.
He lowered me onto the mossy bank like I was fragile.
The earth was cool and giving beneath my back, the scent of honeysuckle heavy enough to drown in.
Kyron knelt between my legs, his hands slow and deliberate as he slid my shorts and underwear down.
He left my tank top and sandals on—something about the half-dressed urgency of it made my pulse hammer.
He looked at me for a long moment, then lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue on my clit was warm and wet and shocking. I gasped, hips jerking. He made a low, pleased sound against me and did it again, slower, tongue tracing, exploring, learning exactly what made my breath hitch.
One of his hands held my thigh open, while the other slid up under my tank top to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple until I whimpered. The open air, the distant call of a bird, the knowledge that anyone rounding the bend might see us—it all wound the pleasure tighter.
“Kyron—” His name came out shaky.
He sucked gently on my clit and slid one thick finger inside me, curling it just right.
I came hard, thighs trembling around his shoulders, a broken cry escaping before I could bite it back.
The orgasm rolled through me in long, pulsing waves while he kept licking, gentler now, drawing it out until I was panting and boneless.
He kissed the inside of my thigh, then my hip, working his way up. When he reached my mouth, I could taste myself on him. My hands shook as I tugged at his shorts. He helped me push them down, and I wrapped my fingers around him for the first time.
He was hot, heavy, velvet over steel. I stroked experimentally and he groaned, low and rough, head dropping until our lips were just inches apart.
“I’ve never done this,” I whispered against his lips. “I’m a virgin.”
He went still, breath catching. Those dark eyes searched mine.
“You sure you want it to be here? With me?”
“I’m sure.” I stroked him again, firmer. “I want you. Please.”
He kissed me deeply, then sat back on his heels and pulled his T-shirt off.
The sight of him—broad shoulders, river-tanned skin, dark ink running down both forearms and curling up over his biceps—made fresh heat bloom low in my belly.
He took a condom from the dry bag clipped to his shorts, rolled it on with steady hands, then settled between my thighs again.
“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he said, voice tight with restraint. “We can stop. Anytime.”
I nodded, heart pounding. He rubbed the head of his cock against my slick folds, teasing my clit until I was squirming, then began to push inside.
The stretch burned. I sucked in a sharp breath as he worked the first inch in, then another. It was too much, too full, a stinging pressure that made my eyes water. I gripped his shoulders, nails digging in.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmured, holding still.
One hand slipped between us and his thumb found my clit again, rubbing slow, perfect circles.
The sharp edge of pain started to blur, melting into something warmer, deeper.
He rocked gently, giving me time, whispering against my neck—so tight, so good—until the burn eased into a heavy, aching fullness.
When he finally sank all the way in, we both groaned.
He held perfectly still, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving.
I could see the strain in his face—jaw tight, eyes dark and glassy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck.
His thumb kept circling my clit in slow, slick strokes, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through the ache.
I whimpered, the sound embarrassingly needy. The outdoor air felt cool against my heated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and thighs.
“Move,” I whispered, voice trembling. “Please, Kyron.”
He groaned again, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine, and began to rock.
Slow, careful strokes at first, each one dragging against sensitive places I didn’t know existed.
The burning stretch gradually melted into a deep, liquid pleasure that made my toes curl inside my sandals.
Our bodies made soft, rhythmic sounds—skin against skin, the quiet wet slide of him, the faint creak of moss and roots beneath us.
He angled his hips and drove in harder. I cried out, a sharp, breathless moan that echoed off the water. He cursed under his breath and picked up the pace, thumb pressing firmer and faster on my swollen clit.
I wrapped my legs tighter around his waist, the heels of my river sandals digging into his lower back.
My fingers dug into his shoulders as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside me.
Every thrust sent sparks racing up my spine.
The risk of being seen, the open sky above us, the river murmuring just feet away—it all heightened every sensation until I felt dizzy with it.
“Kyron—oh God?—”
My voice broke into a series of desperate, whimpering moans as the second orgasm crashed over me without warning.
My whole body seized, back arching hard off the bank as powerful waves of pleasure ripped through me.
I clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, crying out sharply with every contraction.
His rhythm faltered. He buried himself deep and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a long, guttural groan that sounded almost pained.
I felt every pulse, every throb of him inside me as he spilled into the condom.
His body shuddered against mine, another low, broken sound vibrating against my neck as the last spasms rolled through him.
We stayed locked together, panting hard. The only sounds were our ragged breathing, the slow lap of the river, and the distant call of a bird somewhere downstream. My body felt raw, tender, and utterly spent—pleasure still humming through my veins.
He kissed me softly, then eased out with a careful tenderness that made my chest ache. We stayed tangled on the bank while the river kept moving past us.
I was leaving in three days. I’d known it since I unpacked the car. I’d been keeping it where I could see it—right there, visible, a fact I wasn’t hiding from myself. It didn’t help as much as I thought it would.
He went still beside me. “Red-tailed,” he said.
I followed his eyeline to the far bank. A hawk was working the tree line, low and patient, riding something I couldn’t feel from here.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Tail color. Belly band.” He said it the same way he said everything—flat and certain, no performance in it. “Call’s different too, if you hear it.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. We were sitting on a riverbank in the middle of nowhere with the honeysuckle in my hair and he was identifying hawks with the same energy he used to discuss equipment logistics.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” I said.
He didn’t answer. He looked at the hawk for another moment and then his hand found mine on the bank between us and stayed there. His thumb moved once across my knuckles and went still.
The hawk dropped below the tree line. The river kept doing what rivers did.
I turned my hand over and held on.