Chapter 3
PARKER
T he entire world stops, and when I blink, everything falls back into place, careening into motion. It’s the kiss that melts away the last of my resistance.
Although, to be honest, I’m not sure I had any to begin with.
I knew I was done for the second I saw her.
My brain finally shakes itself into action, and I deepen the kiss, coaxing her mouth to part, and when she does, I shove my tongue, tasting every corner, swallowing every moan.
I grip her waist and drag her flush to me. I hate even an inch between us.
My tongue slides against hers, hungry, filthy, and possessive, and every sound she makes goes straight to my cock, already hard and throbbing beneath the wet denim.
My beard scrapes her skin, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she arches into me.
I press her against the porch post, hips grinding once, slow and rough. My entire universe has whittled down to nothing but the primal need to have her, be inside her.
She whimpers, and I lose what little control I had left.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her eyes are glassy with need, her lips swollen from kissing, hair soaked and wild around her cheeks. God, so fucking beautiful.
“Back inside?” I ask, voice low, ragged.
She shakes her head and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.
I graze a thumb along her jaw. “No?”
She grabs my shirt and touches the corner of my mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Take me to the field.”
Well, fuck.
The storm is still falling, sheets of rain cutting sideways through the air, soaking us to the bone. Paris doesn’t care, and neither do I. The porch behind her is solid and dry, but she wants the field.
Fine. Her wish is my command.
I carry her off the porch and into the open yard, one arm under her thighs, the other supporting her back as she clings to my neck.
The wet grass squelches beneath my boots as we move through the rain, past the mud-slick driveway and toward the edge of the corn.
The stalks rise around us, eight feet tall and shivering in the wind, their leaves rustling.
Paris’s breath is hot against my throat, her small frame trembling against my chest.
She presses into me, mouth finding mine again, hotter now, wetter, needier. I slide my hands under the soaked shirt she’s wearing—my shirt—and when I feel bare skin beneath, I groan into her neck. “No bra?”
“No panties either.”
Goddammit. She really is set on snapping my control.
I move us deeper into the field, the sound of the storm muffled by the tall stalks that bend and sway.
The mud sucks at my boots, her weight hot and perfect in my arms. Then I spot it—just a little patch of flattened ground, maybe from a deer, maybe from some kid who got lost out here earlier in the day.
It doesn’t matter. It’s ours now.
I drop to my knees with her still wrapped around me, then lay her down on the soft, wet earth.
I kneel between her legs, push the flannel shirt open, and fuck.
Her bare skin glows in the dark, slick with rain, flushed with heat. Her nipples are tight, begging for my mouth, and when I lean down to take one between my lips, she arches up with a cry that gets drowned by the rain.
Her hands are in my hair, pulling, yanking, her nails digging into my scalp.
I trail one hand down her body and slip it under the shirt.
Slick and soaked.
My voice is thick and gravelly with want. “You want this, Paris?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
I bunch the shirt around her waist. She’s laid out for me now—flushed, writhing, hungry, beautiful, and mine.
With a growl, I lower my mouth to her inner thigh, run a hand along the expanse of skin, and kiss a slow, filthy path toward her pussy.
She whimpers, and I groan.
Letting my beard tickle her soft skin, I trail my mouth higher, humming in approval when she tries to pull me to her center.
She lets out this broken little moan the second my tongue slides between her folds, and fuck, I nearly lose it right then.
I suck her clit gently, then rougher, teasing with the tip of my tongue before flattening it and licking deep, dragging my tongue along her wet slit.
Her hips jerk. Her fingers clutch the corn stalks beside her, trying to grab or hold on to anything.
“You like that?” I rasp, mouth wet, breath hot against her. “You want more?”
She nods frantically, thighs trembling around my head. “Yes. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
“Oh, baby, I’m not stopping until you scream my name.”
I suck harder, tongue circling and fucking into her slowly, and she slowly falls apart.
One hand claws at the dirt, the other fists in my hair, trying to pull me closer, urging me on with a desperation that mirrors my own.
Her hips buck against my mouth, seeking more, demanding everything I can give her.
“That’s it,” I groan, fingers digging into her hips. “Let go for me. Come on my mouth like a good girl.”
Her body tenses, and she shatters in a torrent of cries and spasms.
Her moan is raw, guttural, pouring into the rain-drenched night as she comes, shaking under my hands, thighs clamping around my face. I don’t stop. I don’t want to stop. The world could end, and it still couldn’t keep me from her cunt.
I lick her through it, hungry for every twitch, every gasp, every drop of her.
And when I finally pull back, beard soaked, lips wet, heart thundering, I crawl up her body, hover over her, and kiss her.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” I whisper against her mouth.
She looks up at me, dazed, wrecked, radiant. “Yes, I do. I feel it too.”
My heart clenches, something thick lodging itself in my throat. I reach for my belt, cursing under my breath when my fingers slip. The rain pours from the brim of my soaked hair, her legs still wrapped around my hips, her hands tugging at my shirt like she’ll die if I don’t get inside her now.
“I need you,” she whispers, mouth at my throat, breath hot and desperate.
“You have me,” I growl, the words ripped from deep within my chest. I hiss as I wrap a hand around my rock-hard cock, the sensation almost too much to bear.
I line myself up against her pussy, feeling her heat even through the torrential downpour.
Her body is ready, open, and inviting, and I’m a man possessed, driven by a need that's as primal as the storm raging around us.
Thunder booms, and we both ignore it. But then, the rain comes down so fast it stings, and suddenly it’s not just wet. It’s flooding. The dirt beneath us turns to thick, sucking mud.
She gasps and laughs all at once, blinking through it. “Oh my God. We’re gonna drown out here.”
I haven’t smiled in such a long time that the grin tugging at my mouth feels weird.
We stumble toward the house like drunk idiots, soaked to the bone, clothes sticking, bodies burning. I’m half-hard, still twitching with frustration, but also grinning like a fool because she’s laughing, and every second with her feels like a punch to the ribs I don’t want to dodge.
We barge through the front door, dripping everywhere.
She peels off the shirt, drops it in a puddle on the floor. “My legs feel like wet noodles.”
I yank off my own, water splattering everywhere. “Good. My goal is to make it hard for you to walk in the next few days.”
“You know, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
By the time we make it to my bedroom, we’re stripped down to absolutely nothing, skin damp, lungs still heaving from the sprint. I pull the quilt back. She climbs in without hesitation, curling onto her side.
“Okay, I need to ask. Do you always bring strange, soaking wet women to your bed after midnight?” she teases, pulling the blanket up over her shoulder.
“Only the ones I find crying in cornfields and those who came on my tongue.”
She snorts. “So, how many?”
“One.”
I slide in beside her, still warm from the afterglow of almost, the static of what could’ve happened still buzzing under my skin. She’s right there, hair damp on the pillow, thigh brushing mine, eyes sleepy.
She smiles sleepily. “Am I special, then?”
Unable to stop myself, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her softly on the mouth. “You have no idea.”