Page 14 of Owned In Misty Mountain

She moans—quiet, sweet and wrecked.

“Didn’t even know I had patience left in me,” I rasp. “But for you? I’ll go slow.”

My hand slips between her thighs. I cup her over her leggings, and fuck, she’s soaked through.

“You feel that?” I murmur.

She nods fast.

“You ever been touched here?”

“N-No,” she whispers.

“You want me to?”

A beat of silence.

She looks up at me with those big brown eyes, desperate, shy and burning.

“Yes.”

And I lose it.

That one word undoes me.

I back her into the wall, slow and steady, like I’ve been waiting my whole fucking life to do it.

She doesn’t flinch.

She leans in.

And when I press my lips to hers, it’s not gentle.

It’s claiming.

She gasps against my mouth, soft and surprised, but melts instantly when I deepen the kiss—tongue sliding past her lips, hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

She tastes like honey.

And I swear I could live here.

She makes the sweetest little whimper when I slide one hand up under her hoodie. Warm, soft, untouched skin.

“Fuck, baby,” I groan. “You feel like heaven.”

She arches into me when my fingers find her bare waist, and that sound—needy and raw—has my cock straining so hard it hurts.

I drag my mouth down her neck, sucking gently at the spot under her ear. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

She shakes her head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

I drop to my knees.

Right there.

In the back room of a public library.

I don’t give a shit.

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