22. Hunter #2
I didn't back off this time. I gave her everything at once and her body had been held at the edge for so long that the orgasm didn't build — it detonated.
She screamed my name at a volume that the main house could probably hear.
Her body clenched around my fingers in violent pulses — hard, rhythmic.
Her voice broke and her eyes rolled back.
Her whole body was trembling, and I worked her through every second of it until the last pulse faded and she collapsed against the mattress, gasping.
I kissed her — soft, slow, her lips barely responding, her body wrecked and limp beneath me. I reached above her head and untied the t-shirt. Her arms fell to her sides. Her wrists were pink — flushed from the pulling, the skin warm. I kissed each one. Her fingers twitched but didn't close.
"I can't feel my legs,” she whispered. Her voice was destroyed.
"Good."
Her laugh was weak and breathless and the best sound in the room. Her hands found my shoulders — heavy, clumsy, her fingers without their usual precision. She pulled me down. Kissed me. Her tongue lazy against mine.
"I need you inside me,” she murmured against my lips. "Right now. Before I pass out."
I notched myself at her entrance. Pressed in — slow, the stretch, the heat, her body opening around me in a long wet grip that made my jaw clench, and my arms shake. Her breath came out in a shudder. Her nails bit into my back. I held still. Full. Deep. Her body pulsing around me.
I pulled back. Pressed in. Her gasp. Again. Her moan. I built a rhythm — deep, steady — and her hips started meeting me and her breathing started climbing and her nails started raking, and the friction was building in the base of my spine.
I pulled out. She whimpered.
"Turn over."
Her eyes opened. Dark. Glazed. She rolled — slow, her muscles liquid, her body heavy with aftershock.
On her stomach. I gripped her hips. Lifted.
She rose onto her hands and knees in front of me — her spine dipping, her hair falling forward, her shoulder blades shifting under her skin.
I ran my hand down her spine. From the base of her neck to the curve of her ass. She arched into my palm.
I pushed in from behind. Deeper at this angle — the head of my cock hitting the spot that made her fists clench in the sheets and her head drop between her arms, and a sound come out of her that was raw and guttural.
I gripped her hips and moved — hard, deep, the pace faster than before.
The sound of my body meeting hers filled the room. Her moans muffled in the sheets.
She rose up onto her knees. Her back pressed against my chest. My arm locked around her waist — holding her against me, her spine flush with my chest, her head tipping back against my shoulder.
My hips drove up into her from behind. My free hand found her breast — cupping, squeezing, my fingers rolling her nipple.
Her hand reached back and gripped the back of my neck.
Her mouth opened with a string of praise and moans flying out of it.
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come,” she gasped.
Her body seized in my arms. She clenched around my cock in hard rhythmic pulses that pulled me over the edge.
I drove deep and held, and the release tore through me — my face pressed into her neck, my arm locked around her waist, my groan pressed into her shoulder.
Her body pulsed around me while mine pulsed inside her, and we held each other upright on our knees while the aftershocks rolled through both of us in long, overlapping waves.
We collapsed. Sideways. Tangled. Her back against my chest. My arm still around her waist. Both of us breathing in jagged pulls that slowly evened out. Her hand found mine on her stomach. Her fingers laced through. She squeezed once. Weak. Her body heavy and slack against mine.
"Hunt."
"Yeah."
"I can't move."
“Don't." Not ever. Please. Or it might kill me, I wanted to add, but didn’t.
My mouth pressed against the back of her neck. Her skin was damp. She tasted like salt and sex and the coconut shampoo underneath both. My arm tightened around her waist.
Her fingers traced patterns on my chest.
The lamp was off. Her head was on my shoulder. Her breathing had slowed, but her fingers kept moving — my ribs, the groove between them, the ridge of muscle along my side. Not seeking. Not teasing. Her mind was somewhere her mouth wasn't going.
I lay still. Her fingers moved. The room was quiet.
Her hand slid up my chest. Found the side of my neck. Her palm settled against it — warm, deliberate, her thumb pressing into the hollow where my pulse beat. She held it there.
I covered her hand with mine. Pressed it harder against my throat. My heartbeat pushing against her thumb. Her heartbeat in the pads of her fingers pushing back.
She didn't speak. I didn't speak. The quiet held us the way it had always held us — full, heavy, saying what our mouths wouldn't. The contract.
The months that were left. The word pressing against the inside of my ribs that I hadn't said and she hadn't said, and the not-saying was getting louder every night.
Her thumb moved against my pulse. My hand held hers against my throat.
Not yet. But soon. Soon I’d tell her how much I loved her.