Page 50 of Protector of Talon Mountain

There’s no fear now. No second-guessing. Just the steady rise of need and the deeper weight of trust that’s only grown between us.

He kisses me again, slower this time, longer—like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth, the way I breathe his name. His hands roam carefully, confidently, as if I’m a map he’s traced before but wants to learn all over again. And when I whisper his name, it slips out like a secret I don’t want to hide anymore.

I lower myself to my knees in front of him, the hardwood cool beneath me, but all I feel is the heat rolling off Zeke’s body. He’s leaning against the edge of the table, arms braced, watching me with those dark, storm-swept eyes that see too much. That always see me.

My fingers find his belt buckle, and I pause—not from nerves, but because this moment deserves to be felt. His chest rises on a sharp inhale. I hear it. Feel it. He coils his control tightly, as if he’s about to break.

“You don’t have to—” he says, voice rough, low.

I lift my gaze to meet his. “I want to,” I whisper.

His jaw tightens, but he nods. That slight movement is all the permission I need.

I ease his jeans down, the slow drag of denim revealing skin I’ve only seen in flashes. Every inch of him is hard, carved, restrained. I place a kiss on his hip, then another along the inside of his thigh, and he groans—just once, but it’s enough to send heat spiraling between my legs. His hand hovers near my hair, not pulling, not forcing. Just there. Like he needs the anchor as much as I do.

I wrap my fingers around him, my thumb brushing over the soft skin at the tip, and he hisses through his teeth. The sound is raw. Unfiltered.

When I take him into my mouth, slowly, fully, his hand finally finds me—threading into my hair, tightening just enough to tell me he feels it. Really feels it.

He murmurs my name like it’s a warning and a prayer all at once. “Sadie…”

I hum around him, letting him feel the vibration. His whole body shudders. I don’t rush. I want to give him this. To watch the control unravel. To know I can wreck him as much as he’s wrecked me.

He tastes like salt and skin and something that’s just him. I close my eyes and focus on every sound he makes, every twitch of muscle, every low growl that tells me I’m driving him insane.

When his hand tightens in my hair, I slow, easing off and looking up. Now, his eyes are dark and wild, like molten metal.

“Come here,” he says, voice wrecked.

He lifts me without effort, pulling me back into his arms, his mouth already finding mine. There’s nothing hurried in the kiss—just heat and need and the kind of reverence that makes my heart ache. He sweeps me up in his arms and carries me to the bed.

“You undo me,” he whispers against my lips as he lays me down. “You have from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

I smile, reaching up for him, breath shallow, heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can feel it.

“I’m not sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling me closer. “I want to stay undone if it’s by you.”

I tug Zeke’s shirt over his head, my fingers lingering for a beat longer than they need to on the warmth of his skin. He lifts the hem of the one I’m wearing—his, soft and worn—and drags it over my head, slowly, carefully. When our bodies press together, skin to skin, heat to heat, it’s not frantic like before. It’s slower. Fuller. A kind of heat that doesn’t flare and vanish—it simmers. Deep and consuming.

He kisses a warm, electrifying path along my jaw, his lips brushing tenderly over the sensitive skin, down over my throat to the gentle curve of my breast. He lingers there, teasing and playful, his breath a soft whisper against my skin. His mouth closes around my nipple, his tongue swirling before delivering a sharp, thrilling nip. The sensation courses through me like a surge of lightning, and I hiss with surprise, my hands gripping the quilt, twisting it into a tangled mess beneath my fingers.

Zeke emits a low, satisfied sound that vibrates against my skin, a soft hum of pleasure as he moves to the other nipple. He draws it into his mouth with deliberate slowness, his lips insistent and claiming, sucking gently but with intent. He laves it with long, swirling strokes of his tongue, creating a spiral of heat that leaves me gasping, my body responding instinctively, squirming and arching beneath him.

My skin feels ignited, every nerve alive and flickering, coiling under his attentive touch. I crave more, an intense need surging through me, desperate and trembling with anticipation. He shifts his position, centering his body between my legs, and I find it hard to breathe, to think, as I consume his touch like it’s the very air I need. He continues his journey down my body with a mixture of tongue and teeth, each kiss a sizzling imprint on my skin.

When he enters me, I gasp—a sound I couldn’t stop if I tried. It’s not loud. It’s soft, reverent. My legs wrap around his waist without thought, driven by instinct and need. My hands find his jaw, cupping it gently, holding him close as I look up into his eyes. And he’s looking right back—steady, intense, like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered. That look... it undoes me more than any touch.

He moves inside me with a rhythm that feels less like sex and more like communion—every thrust deliberate, every connection drawing us tighter. There’s no rush. No frantic build. It’s a dance, and we move together perfectly, my hips rising to meet his in time, our bodies synced like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.

He touches me like I’m something precious. Even so, there’s no mistaking the way he claims me with every stroke. His hands grip my waist, firm but never harsh. His body surrounds mine, shields me. Every breathless moan I let slip, every time I whisper his name—"Zeke"—it pulls him deeper, grounds us harder.

He kisses me slowly, lingering at my mouth, my jaw, my neck. His lips brush over my collarbone, then down my shoulder, like he’s tasting every piece of me he missed last night. I cling to him like I’ll float away if I don’t. Not because I’m afraid—but because I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Than him. Than us, like this.

The pleasure builds gradually, winding through me like a current I don’t want to resist. My body arches under his, rising into him, chasing that rising pressure, feeling the tension coil tighter and tighter until I’m nothing but sensation and sound. And the whole time, I keep my eyes on him. I don’t look away. I want him to see me unravel. To know that this is his.

When I finally come, it’s not a fall—it’s a slow, shuddering bloom. My breath comes in stutters. My body trembles around him. But I don’t close my eyes. I hold his gaze, and I see everything in it. The fire. The devotion. The promise.

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