Page 55 of Boulder's Weight

The vulnerability of it is almost too much.

Sex has always been a physical release for me, a way to forget my troubles for a while.

But this—the eye contact, the intensity, the raw emotion—this is something else entirely.

Boulder's thrusts are deep and measured, his gaze never leaving mine.

One hand grips my hip, the other still pinning my wrists above my head.

I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him deeper.

"Fuck, Kelsey," he groans, his rhythm faltering slightly. "You feel so goddamn good."

I can feel my orgasm building, a tight coil of pleasure low in my belly.

"Harder," I demand, needing more. "Please."

He complies immediately, his thrusts becoming faster, more forceful.

The bed frame creaks in protest, the headboard thumping against the wall.

I don't care.

All that matters is this moment, this feeling, this man.

"Touch yourself," Boulder commands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I want to watch you come around my cock."

I slip my free hand between us, my fingers finding my clit.

The dual sensation of his cock filling me and my fingers on my most sensitive spot quickly pushes me toward the edge.

"That's it," he encourages, his eyes darkening as he watches. "Let go, girl. I've got you."

His words are my undoing.

My orgasm crashes over me in waves, my body clenching around him as I cry out his name.

Boulder follows shortly after, his rhythm breaking as he drives into me one last time, his release hot inside me.

For several minutes, we lie tangled together, catching our breath.

I expect him to roll away, to put some distance between us as he usually does after sex.

Instead, he gathers me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me protectively.

"You okay?" he asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

The sex was incredible, but it's this moment—the quiet intimacy afterward—that terrifies me most.

It feels too real, too meaningful.

"Boulder, I..." I start, then stop, unsure what I even want to say.

Part of me wants to tell him everything—about my father, about Benji's threats, about why I ran.

But the words stick in my throat.

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