Page 68 of The Shadows We Keep

My balls ache with the need to fill her full of cum and watch it drip down her creamy thighs. But I hold back, determined to let her lead the way to our joint ecstasy.

It’d be easy enough to shove her over with the right stroke of my fingers against her clit but that would mean taking my thumb out of her ass. Selfishly refusing to do so, as that thin wall between my cock and thumb causes my cock to harden to an almost painful fullness with each stroke.

“Touch yourself, little one,” I order.

But she doesn’t move, her hands grip tighter into the plush comforter. My hand cracks hard against her tight backside, eliciting a drawn-out, muffled moan from her lips. But no doubt the sting got her attention since those fingers slowly dip below her body.

I rub the red patch of skin staring up at me, before a lighter smack hits the same area. The third time my hand meets her sensitive flesh, the dam of euphoria breaks, washing through her as her body quakes against me. Her core drenches my cock, inciting my last violent thrust forward. A deep groan tears free from my diaphragm, rivaling any beasts roar, as I empty down into her heavenly depths.

Our bodies crumble into a heap on the mattress, limbs tangled, bodies satiated from the carnal hunger burning between us—for now.

Rolling to her side, I pull her into my chest. Her cheeks flush a deep-rosy, red, those dark thick lashes fighting to keep my gaze, as sleep tries to steal her away. Brushing an unruly lock of hair behind her ear I whisper, “Baby, you need to get up and use the bathroom. We didn’t use protection.”

She stirs under my soft words but comes to when my lips caress hers gently.

“Do I need to carry you, or do you think can you make it?”

Her lips quirk quickly to the side at my offer. When she doesn’t make to move, I take that as my queue and slide from the bed, pulling her relaxed form into a bridal carry. Her limp arms hang heavy around my neck as her head thuds against my shoulder. She nuzzles into me; a contented sigh blows the baby hairs at the nape of my neck, sending a chill through me, and I tighten my hold.

Dropping her feet to the warmed tile floors in the bathroom, she sways before finally opening her eyes and steadying herself upright.

“Thank you.” Her hoarse gratitude sticks in my chest. A tightness physically constricting the muscles around my heart at the look in her uninhibited eyes. Every exposed piece of her drags me in. The need to be with her, protect her, consume her whole hasn’t lessened a modicum in the week she’s been here. If anything, it’s intensified at her closeness.

My fingers wrap around her naked waist, tugging her flush against my front before I drop a quick kiss to her forehead. I turn back for the bed; the door clicking shut behind me. Falling flat across the mattress, my body sings as I breathe in the sweet muskiness clinging to the sheets.

I’ll never be able to let her go.

Not that I planned to. I just hope my grip’s strong enough to hold on through the storm heading straight for us.

TWENTY-EIGHT

KEIRA

Scars – Boy Epic

The frigid winter weather bites against the tips of my ears as I pull the door shut behind me. Settling into the warmed leather seats, I lean forward toward the vents blowing out toasty air. A sigh of relief brushes passed my lips, and an amused chuckle fills the cab of the SUV. My neck snaps to the left, in the driver’s direction–where I assumed James would be, as he always is. But Harkin sits there instead.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I thought we could get some coffee and breakfast,” he says casually, but there’s an air of unease surrounding him.

“Can we just go home? I’ve been on my feet for the last eight hours and I’m tired.” Silence falls around us when he doesn’t answer my question. I have no energy to deal with the silent treatment right now.

“Harkin.” His name comes out clipped, demanding the answer I’m owed.

“No.”

My eyes shoot daggers into his profile, but he ignores me, pulling into the traffic exiting from the airport.

“Excuse me? What do you mean, no?”

He cranks his neck left and right, popping the joints, a long deep breath accompanies the dramatic display.

“I’ll explain at breakfast. But for now, can you just cooperate with me?” he implores.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I grant him a huff of irritation before turning away to face the passenger window.

Am I pouting like a damn child? Sure. But I can’t stand the cryptic as hell answer he just gave me. Why not just explain now while we drive? What could be so important that we need to go sit in a public place to have the conversation.

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