Page 51 of Hunter Moon

“No,” I whispered. “No, I—I want you where I can see you.”

He swallowed, hard, so his throat clicked. But he nodded, dragging his hand down my stomach instead, shifting my shirt out of the way and pushing up his sleeves.

The air was cold. Logically, I knew that, but my whole body was fire, the heat concentrated where Aspen’s rough fingers skirted across the skin of my lower belly, slipping past my jeans, down the elastic band of my boxers, and—

“Oh.” I whined, my ass clenching to pivot my hips toward his hand. “Aspen.”

His name filled my ears, tumbled out of my mouth like a prayer. Everything was heat and pressure and throbbing, like my very heartbeat sent my whole body pulsing.

There was no teasing in the swift, efficient stroke of Aspen’s hand, the firm curl of his fingers.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered in my ear when I bent my head to drag my teeth across his neck. I nuzzled in, his pulse point brushing across mine, synchronizing. Our scents mixed together as I pushed against him. “Hold onto me.”

I did, rocking on the tips of my toes, melding my body to every inch of his that I could reach. I kissed his ear, his neck, his shoulder.

And then I broke, the pleasure peaking before I thought to try and hold back. My breath must’ve caught, or maybe I made some other sound, because Aspen leaned back and held my gaze as I came apart for him, coming all over his hand.

All I could smell was sex, the bitter scent of come and something behind it.

He didn’t let go of me right away, keeping a gentle pressure against my overstimulated cock until he carefully slipped his hand out. There was a wet spot in my boxers, but the majority of the mess was slick and white on the inside of Aspen’s golden wrist.

He lifted it to his mouth, his tongue a pink flick as he licked himself clean. Another moan escaped me. My knees knocked together and gave out, and next thing I knew, I was grappling with the front of his pants with a lot more efficiency than I’d handled my own.

When I looked up, Aspen was staring down at me, his full mouth slack, his neck flushed with the spots of my kisses. But there was something in his eyes—worry or fear. I didn’t like it.

“You don’t have to,” Aspen whispered.

But at first, all I could do was shake my head, wiggle his boxers down until his cock, hard and red and flushed, stood out naked to the chilly October air.

I stared his cock, swollen and slick with a bead of precome right there at the tip. He needed more from me—needed to hear it.

Gasping in a breath, I tore my gaze up to his again and smiled. “I want to.”

He swallowed again, but he didn’t say anything else. Only, when I leaned in and dragged my spit-slick lips over the head of his dick, his hand combed through my hair, pushing it back from my forehead, but pulling me closer when his fingers stretched around the back of my skull.

Fuck, knowing he wanted this, trusting he wouldn’t take it if he meant to hurt me again—I dove in, swallowing down over the bitter, salty tip when it hit the back of my throat.

Above me, Aspen cursed, his hips flexing forward, his lower belly a firm plane of muscles for me to drag my hand over. Everywhere I touched, he was warm.

He said sweet things while I bobbed on his dick: “So good, baby,” and, “That feels incredible,” and, “Oh, fuck! I’m coming.”

I sank down hard, willing my throat to take every drop of him, swallow down around the convulsing shaft until he was finished, still hard and hot between my lips, but with something of the intensity gone. His fingers were slack in my hair, petting me. His limbs, which had been rigid moments before, were now soft and tender.

I panted, and I couldn’t get up. I tasted like him, smelled like him, and all that tension I’d been carrying around in my body for days and weeks and months had—had—

It wasn’t gone, exactly, but it was coming out. Embarrassingly, it was coming out of my eyes.

They stung, and I blinked fast. As soon as he heard my breath catch and shake, Aspen was on his knees in front of me, his hands cupping my face. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Did I—”

Before he even finished, I was shaking my head, fisting my hands in his shirt and dragging him closer so I could press my face into the curve of his neck. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

He pressed his cheek, his lips, against the top of my head. His hands swept across my shoulders and he kept holding me close. Really, that was all I needed. Because, even though I was crying, it had nothing to do with Aspen Grove.

Nothing to do with him, except that he’d opened me up, and more emotion than I wanted had come crashing through. All the feelings I’d been trying to stuff down came rushing to the surface to soak the shoulder of his thin shirt while he held me tight and my knees sank into the dirt between fallen apples.

31

Aspen

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