Page 90 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

I grit my teeth, fighting against that tingle at the base of my spine and the tightening of my balls that warns I’m close to coming already.

No!

Not like this.

Not so fast.

Fuck…

She needs this.

She needs me.

She needs strong Dalton.

The one who helped her.

The one who told her he would give her anything she wanted or needed.

Not the young, inexperienced Dalton, who can sometimes make impulsive decisions without fully thinking them through and lets his emotions take control.

If I let that happen now, I’ll only disappoint her, leave her wanting and desperate without any way to fix it.

And Irefuseto be that to her.

I slow my breathing, dig my fingers into her hips, and help her move and sustain the rhythm she seems to need.

She angles herself forward, grinding down against my pelvis when she reaches the hilt. Her breaths fall from her parted lips in harsh rushes of warm air, her fingers curling into my skin as she pushes down so hard on my shoulders that it feels like there might be bruises there tomorrow.

I’d fucking welcome it.

This woman could mark me anyway she wants to, and I’d let her and then find a way to make it permanent.

Because what tonight has made abundantly clear, besides the fact that I’m putty in Camille’s hands, is that I am utterly, hopelessly, completely in love with her. There is nothing she could do that could drive me away or make me question this all-consuming emotion as I watch her ride me.

She rolls her hips almost violently, her belly brushing my abs with every forward swirl and downward grind, and I bite down so hard to keep myself from immediately emptying inside her that my teeth hurt.

Every muscle stiffens and begins to shake, like I’m on the verge of shattering, no matter how badly I try to cling to power over my reaction to her. The longer I watch her, the darker the flush that spreads across her breasts, up her neck, and across her cheeks, the harder it becomes to control what my body wants in favor of whatsheneeds.

Because fuck, she’s beautiful riding me like this.

Taking what she wants.

What onlyIcan give her in this moment.

I feather my fingers across her warm cheek, and her eyes flicker open to meet mine, half hooded under thick, dark lashes. Clouded by the same lust and need I’m feeling.

She keeps gliding up and down my length and grinding against me, and I can see her frustration and feel it in every jerky movement.

“Tell me what to do, Camille…”

If she doesn’t help me, I can’t help her.

That utter sense of inadequacy I’ve tried not to let overwhelm me at times when it comes to her threatens to rear its ugly head. Especially when she clenches her jaw and shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed again, like she’s fighting it and me.

Maybe she is.

Her body or her mind are unwilling to let go of something still clinging to her and holding her back.

---