Page 36 of A Forever Kind of Rancher

Unfiltered, unabashed.

And then he wrapped his arm around her waist and brought her bare body against his. And they were touching, everywhere. Naked, against each other. He was so hard and hot, and her desire for him was like a living thing. Demanding. Exulting. And she indulged.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, gloried in the feel of her sensitized breasts moving against his hair-roughened chest. Loving the way his large, calloused hands moved over her curves, the way one cupped her ass and squeezed her hard.

Then delved between her thighs to tease her slick entrance.

She cried out as he pushed a finger inside of her, and then another.

Boone. She would never not be conscious it was him.

It wasn’t about generic desire. It wasn’t about that basic sort of human need that everyone experienced. This was singular. It was for him. About him.

And when he lifted her up and laid her down on the bed, he looked at her like a starving man. And he pushed her knees apart, kissing her ankle, that sensitive spot right on the inside of her knee, and up her thigh, slowly. His mouth was hot, and his eyes were full of intent, and even as she felt a vague amount of discomfort and embarrassment wash over her when he drew closer to the most intimate part of her, she couldn’t look away.

Because she had to see it. She had to see Boone’s mouth on her. And then it was. She gasped, arching up off the bed, her hand going over her own breast as she squeezed herself, greedy now with all the heat inside of her. And he began to lick her, deep and with intent, pushing a finger inside rhythmically as his tongue moved over the most sensitive part of her.

She was lost in it. In this new music inside of her.

He was an artist, and if he would make her his muse, she would consider herself fortunate.

She closed her eyes, finally surrendering to the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure, finally unable to keep them open. But still, she saw him. His face. His body.

Boone. She was overwhelmed by him.

His touch, his scent. And that realization, his name, him—that was what sent her over the edge, more than a touch, more than his skilled mouth. Just him.

And when she shattered, he clung to her tightly, forcing her to take on more and more pleasure. As he pushed her harder, further, through wave after wave, through a second climax that hit before the first had even abated.

And she was spent after. His name the only thing in her mind, the only thing on her lips. Perhaps, the only thing she knew.

“Boone,” she whispered, as he moved up her body and claimed her mouth, letting her taste her own desire there, the evidence of what they had done.

His smile was more than wicked now. It was something else. Dark and satisfied, and everything.

He moved his hands up to cup her breasts, skimmed his thumbs over the sensitized buds there, then moved both hands down her waist, her hips, beneath her rear as he lifted her hips up off the bed.

“I want...”

“Later,” he said, his voice jagged. “I need to be inside of you.”

And then he was, in one hard, smooth stroke, filling her, almost past the point of pleasure into the gray space where pain met need, and it was wonderful.

He began to move, rough, hard strokes that pushed her further and further toward that shining, glorious peak again. Impossibly. Brilliantly.

There was no way she could come again. She had never in her life come twice during sex, and a third time would just be pushing it, except each and every stroke demanded it.

It was Boone. Inside of her. Tormenting her. Satisfying her. Creating within her an aching need that only he could satisfy.

And she could’ve wept with the glory of it. With the intensity of the new, building need in her that felt entirely separate from the need she’d had before.

Because this was about them. Being one. His body in hers. Intimate. Too much. Not enough.

She met his every stroke, and then he took hold of her chin and pressed his forehead to hers. “That’s right,” he whispered. “Come for me. For me, Wendy.”

It was the desperation there, the fact that he wasn’t talking dirty to her for the sake of a game, but issuing a command that came straight from the very center of who he was, out of the deepest, darkest desire. That was what sent her over. That was what shattered her. And it was nothing like her other two climaxes. This was like something sharp piercing a pane of glass, cracking and shattering it into glorious, glittering pieces. Making it into something almost more beautiful than what it had been before.

And then he followed her. On a rough sound, he found his own release, spilling himself inside of her, his body pulsing deep within. And she watched him. Watched as he was undone.

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