Page 134 of Snowed In

Tugging his wrist away, I grab his hips and urge them closer. “Not necessary.”

“You’re sure?”

Does he need encouragement? I thought it was obvious I’m the one crushing harder.

“I’ve been ready for you for a while,” I confess under my breath, even as my face heats. “What sleeping bags do to a man,” I joke.

The look of shocked delight on his face leaves me with no regrets. “You thought about me?”

The words,‘while you were fucking yourself,’don’t need to be said. They’re between the lines and in his hopeful eyes.

Reaching between us, I line him up as my answer. “Still thinking about you.”

I never thought I’d see a man smile like that. He looks like I just granted every wish he’s had since childhood.

As he presses forward, the smile morphs into concentration. The care in his expression is as touching as the overpowering feeling of him stretching and entering me. The heat inside of heat. The fullness. The connection.

I let out a warbled grunt from the burning sensation. The panic in Ronny’s eyes is eclipsed when he sweeps in, stealing my mouth while his hand goes to my cock. Little charges shoot through my core, down all my appendages—steadying me, turning that bit of discomfort into pleasure.

My muscles go pliant with a satisfied sigh. Being full of another man has never felt so profound as I stare up at his open mouth, his breathing hard. Fingers woven in my curls, gently playing with them, clearly holding back, and waiting for my signal. Such a good lumberjack.

Hooking my feet behind his back, I press him deeper, locking my arms around his shoulders. His eyes slip shut, and I can’t bite back my groan when he lets out one of his own.

And then he moves.

He moves like a buoy riding an ocean wave, a fiddler’s bow, buffing over the strings with practiced grace and style. Ronny Carmichael can move.

My God, can he whittle.

“Yeah. Ho! Uhn. Awww, guh!”

The song I sing is an indecipherable language as he tags my prostate in all the right ways. I’m pretty sure I’ve clawed the shit out of his back. Hands buried in his hair, I probably look like I’m trying to eat his face, but I can’t stop kissing him. His taste, combined with the bite of his hip bones into my thighs while he pumps into me, will be my undoing.

“Marshall. Perfect. Marshall,” he rambles like it’s my new name.

And Ifeelperfect each time he says it. I’ve never felt more perfect, watching him teeter on the edge. It lets loose my feral urge, the one where I’m in control of a man who’s out of control for me.

Grabbing his firm ass cheeks, I hold him to me, pressed deep inside. I flex around him, hugging the magnificent part of him that’s given me the best evening of the year.

“Come,” I rasp. “Come for me.”

His eyes look so desperate, as though he doesn’t have another choice. I will remember that look as long as I live. Remember the cry he lets out, the way his body convulses, the way his heat billows inside me. He wraps an unsteady hand around my shaft just as he collapses on top of me, but it’s unnecessary. I spill all over his fingers and my stomach, head reared back.

Bloody hell.

That was… some whittling.

We lay plastered together, two spent beings unable to move. Something cracks inside my chest at the splendor of feeling his stomach press against mine each time he breathes and his beautifulRonny scent. I am in love with the sensations. I suddenly wonder if all my bitterness was because a part of me knew this might exist somewhere in the world and I just hadn’t met it yet, nor ever thought I would.

The humbling realization flickers through my brain like a neon light—I’ve found it. I’ve found it.

Yet, that uncomfortable limbo of post-coital reality closes in. The haze subsides like a vibrant sun burning away the fog.

Now what?

What happens next?

Will I be reintroduced to two-years-ago Ronny who’s ‘not a good talker?’ Will his Marshall-is-perfect high be gone now that he’s bought all my woodworking and had me?

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