8. Elias
ELIAS
She said no.
The no wasn’t to me. It was to stopping. And that single word burns through every wall I’ve built in four years, every town I’ve left, every morning I’ve walked out of that bakery when all I wanted to do was stay.
My hand is on her jaw, and her heart is beating against my palm where she pressed it to my chest. She’s looking up at me with those brown eyes, and I’m done.
I’m done being the man who nods and leaves.
I’m done with the distance and the silence and the careful, empty life I built so I’d never have to feel anything this big again.
I kiss her.
She tastes like chocolate, and the sound she makes against my mouth undoes the last thread of control I’ve been hanging onto.
My hand slides from her jaw into her hair and her fingers curl into my shirt and I back her up until she hits the counter.
She gasps at the contact, and I pull back just enough to look at her—to make sure—because I need to know this is what she wants.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers. Her eyes are wide and dark and certain.
I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around me and her hands find my face. She pulls me back to her, and the kitchen is small and the light is fading, and nothing in my life has ever felt this necessary.
I kiss her harder, tasting the chocolate and the heat of her, and my hands slide down her sides to the hem of her T-shirt. I tug it upward, and she lifts her arms to help me, the fabric whispering over her skin before I toss it to the kitchen floor.
Her bra is next—simple, black, practical—and I unhook it with fingers that feel clumsy with need. It joins the shirt.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her breasts are generous—full and soft—nipples already tight from the cool air and the way she’s breathing. I stare for a heartbeat, reverent, before I cup them in my palms, feeling their weight.
She arches into my touch with a soft sound, and I kiss her again, deeper this time, rolling my thumbs over the sensitive tips until they pebble harder under me. She sighs against my mouth, sweet and needy, but then her hands press against my chest and she breaks the kiss.
“Elias…there’s something I have to tell you,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I’ve never done this before.”
The words hit me like a spark in dry kindling. Surprise flickers through me, but it’s tangled with something fiercer—something that feels a lot like triumph. She’s untouched. Untouched by anyone else. I’ll be her first.
The thought sends a hot rush straight through me, possessive and primal. If I have my way, she’ll stay like this for the rest of our lives. Mine. Only mine.
“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rough, searching her face.
Morgan nods, brown eyes steady on mine. “I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”
I don’t need more than that. I lower my head and close my mouth over one nipple, licking slowly before drawing it deep and sucking.
She gasps, back arching sharply, head falling back as her fingers tighten in my hair.
I lavish the same attention on the other nipple, savoring every shudder, every soft moan that escapes her.
My hands move lower, unfastening her jeans. Together, we push them down her hips along with her underwear, working off her hiking boots in the process. Everything drops to the floor in a messy pile.
I slide one hand between her thighs and ease a finger into her. She’s soaked—hot and slick—and the groan that tears from my throat is pure need.
“Fuck, Morgan…so wet for me.”
I drop to my knees right there on the kitchen floor, hook her legs over my shoulders, and put my mouth on her.
The first slow drag of my tongue through her folds pulls a startled, breathy moan from her throat—soft and surprised, like she didn’t expect it to feel that good.
She tastes sweet and warm, addictive, and I take my time, licking her slowly, savoring every inch of her.
“Oh…”
The sound slips out of her, low and shaky. Her fingers thread into my hair, not guiding, just holding on. When I circle her clit with the flat of my tongue, her hips jerk and a sweeter, needier whimper escapes her. I do it again, slower, then firmer, learning exactly how she likes it.
“Elias…” Her voice breaks on my name, turning into a long, throaty moan as I seal my lips around her clit and suck gently.
Her back arches hard off the counter, pushing her closer to my mouth. I slide one finger inside her again, curling it slowly while my tongue keeps working, and her moans grow louder, less controlled—little gasps and desperate sounds that echo softly in the quiet cabin.
Her thighs start to tremble against my shoulders. She’s rolling her hips now, chasing my tongue, riding my face with growing urgency.
“Right there—yes, like that—”
The words dissolve into a ragged moan as I add a second finger, stroking her in time with my mouth. Her breathing turns into short, panting cries. I can feel her tightening around my fingers, her whole body winding tighter and tighter.
I suck harder on her clit, flicking my tongue fast, and that’s what breaks her.
She comes with a sharp, helpless cry that turns into a long, shuddering moan, her thighs clamping around my head as her back bows off the counter.
Her fingers fist tight in my hair, tugging almost painfully as wave after wave rolls through her.
I keep licking her through it, gentler now, drawing out every last tremor until she’s gasping and whimpering, her body twitching with aftershocks.
I stand, still tasting her on my lips, but she’s already reaching for me. Her hands grab the bottom of my thermal shirt, yanking it up. We strip the rest of my clothes off in a rush—jeans, boots, everything—until I’m bare in front of her.
Her hand wraps around my cock, and her eyes widen. “You’re…so big. So thick.”
I groan at the feel of her stroking me, the innocent wonder in her touch nearly undoing me. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to come all over your pretty thighs.”
Her eyes widen again, but not with fear. She shakes her head and keeps stroking, firmer now.
“I want more,” she says. “Keep talking to me like that.”
I gently remove her hand from my cock and nudge the thick head against her entrance, sliding it up and down through her slick folds. She’s drenched, and the wet sound it makes is filthy and perfect.
“You’re so wet, baby,” I murmur, voice rough. “So ready for me.”
I push in slowly, inch by inch. The feeling is unreal—her pussy is scorching hot and so incredibly tight, it almost hurts. She grips me like a velvet fist, fluttering and squeezing as I stretch her open.
I watch her face the whole time, mesmerized.
Her lips are parted on a shaky exhale, full and flushed, and the sight of it makes my chest tighten with raw lust. Her generous tits rise and fall with every ragged breath, nipples still tight and glistening from my mouth earlier.
She looks so fucking hot like this—spread open on my kitchen counter, skin glowing, eyes half-lidded with pleasure and nerves.
“God, your pussy’s so tight,” I groan, fighting the urge to drive all the way in.
She winces as I sink deeper, her brows pulling together. I freeze immediately, heart hammering, every muscle locked so I don’t hurt her.
“Keep going,” she breathes, the words trembling. “Please, Elias.”
I move my thumb back to her clit and circle it gently, soothing.
I watch her face until the tension eases and pleasure starts to flicker across it again—her lips parting wider on a soft moan, her eyes fluttering.
Only then do I keep going, sinking deeper, savoring every tight, wet inch as her body slowly opens for me.
Soon, her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging hard into my back as she pulls me in all the way. The last bit of resistance gives, and I fill her completely. Then I begin slowly moving, the wet, slick sound of our bodies filling the kitchen.
“Harder,” she gasps, voice breaking. “Elias…that feels so good.”
I thrust deeper, setting a steady rhythm.
The sound of skin meeting skin grows louder—wet, rhythmic slaps mixed with her breathy moans and my rough groans.
Every time I drive into her, her full tits bounce with the force of it, and I can’t look away.
I lean down and capture one nipple in my mouth again, sucking hard as I fuck her.
“You feel so fucking good,” I rasp against her skin. “So perfect around me.”
She answers with a high, needy whimper that turns into a moan when I hit a spot deep inside her. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her hips rising to meet every thrust. The wet sounds of her pussy taking me grow louder, more obscene, as she gets even wetter.
The pressure builds fast and fierce. Her walls start fluttering around my cock, gripping me tighter with every stroke.
“Come for me, baby,” I growl, thumb still working her clit. “Let me feel you.”
She cries out sharply as her orgasm hits, her pussy clenching rhythmically around me, pulsing and squeezing so tightly, it drags me over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep and come hard, groaning her name like a prayer as pleasure rips through me in heavy waves. As we both come down, our bodies stay locked together, trembling, the wet heat of her still fluttering around me, breathing hard against each other’s skin.
The cabin is quiet.
It’s the kind of quiet that feels different from every other silence I’ve sat in for the last four years. A full silence. Full of her breathing and the woodstove ticking and the last light coming through the window turning everything soft and gold.
She’s still on the counter. I’m standing between her knees with her fingers in my hair, and neither of us has moved because moving means this moment ends, and I’m not ready for that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that.
“Stay,” I say. The word comes out rough and low, and I don’t recognize my own voice. I’ve never asked anyone to stay. In three towns and four years, I’ve never once wanted someone to be in my space with me. Spaces I built specifically so I could never let anyone down again.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is a mess and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Okay,” she says. Simple. Like staying was never even a question.
I carry her to the bedroom because her ankle is still healing and because I want to and because she lets me. She curls into my side and her head fits into the space below my shoulder like it was built for her, and I pull the blanket over us and listen to her breathing slow down.
She falls asleep before I do. I know because her hand goes slack against my chest and her body gets heavy in that way people do when they feel safe enough to let go completely.
I stare at the ceiling and think about how I came to Wildwood to disappear—and how the woman sleeping in my arms is the reason that plan failed.
I’m not sorry about it. Not even close.