Page 51 of Rebel Hawke

That’s enough.

More than enough.

Her body starts to tense under mine, and with each movement, her grip on me grows tighter.

“Trust me, Wren. I’ll get you there, Little Bird.”

She whimpers again, arching her hips, seeking what she’s never had before.

Christ, I want to give it to her.

I want to be the one who sets her free.

Who lets herfly.

“Concentrate on how good my cock feels inside you. That buzzing through your body every time the head catches. The heat blooming where we’re connected…”

I slip my free hand down between us, take her clit between my fingers, and roll it. Wren gasps, her head falling back, mouth open as her body stiffens under me, more and more with each plunge into her.

She begins to vibrate, and I up the pace, then pinch that tiny, throbbing bud.

Wren’s orgasm crashes over her, her pussy rippling along my cock, clenching it, clutching it, trying to drag it even further inside her as I continue to drive deep and roll my thumb and forefinger around her clit to draw out her release.

The pure relief ghosting across her beautiful features finally allows me to let myself fall over that edge. I thrust into her again and again, permitting the heat that’s been coiling at the base of my spine to spread out farther and farther and engulf me until the pull of her cunt finally drags my orgasm from deep inside me.

“Fuck! Wren—”

The words I want to say evaporate as I come deep inside her. Hot spurts of relief make my vision go dark and obliterate the world around us for a few brief seconds before it slowly ebbs.

I bury my face against her neck and collapse on top of her, rolling to the side and dragging her with me. She buries her face against my neck, and I press mine into her hair, cock still embedded deep inside her, still throbbing, still hard.

For the first time in my entire life, I finally feel like I’m exactly where I should be, doing exactly what’s right.

And fuck if that doesn’t terrify me.

WREN

Waking alone in Atlas’bed, I’m somehow still surrounded by him.

By his touch still lingering on my skin.

By his scent permeating the sheets.

The taste of him on my lips and my tongue.

And every single muscle in my body aches and burns in a way no Pilates workout has ever accomplished.

Wrung out.

There’s no other term for it.

I could lie like this forever, on the silky sheets, with a big comforter over me and my face buried in the pillow that smells like him, but my stomach gurgles, and the light shining in from the window tells me I’ve slept far later than I intended.

Shit.

Gramps let Atlas race me away from the studio yesterday when he explained that Damon had been there, but the old man will have questions.

Lots of them.

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