Page 66 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

She mewls again—a high, breathless sound that makes my cock throb with need. It's torture in the best possible way. Watching her move like that… fuck, it short-circuits my brain. I can't think. I can't breathe.

Then she reaches back, her hand closing around my cock—and I nearly lose it.

A strangled moan tears from my throat as my head drops to her shoulder. "Fuck me," I rasp. "I'm about to lose it."

"I want you," she gasps. "Both of you. Inside me. Right now. Please."

Jesus. My entire body clenches. My mind's screaming wait, slow it down—but my hands are already moving, unbuckling my jeans, freeing my cock. It's hard and leaking, almost too sensitive to touch, but her hand finds it again, wrapping around me, stroking. I bite down on the sound that rips up my throat. She feels so fucking good.

If I'm not inside her in the next ten seconds, I'm going to lose my damn mind.

Lennon catches her by the hips, gently lifts her, and holds her steady above me, still kissing her—slow and deep—as I sit back and watch, completely entranced. Her pussy is glistening, swollen with need, and the sight of it makes my entire body lock up with restraint.

I grip the bed beside me to stay grounded.

"Fuck," I whisper. "She's dripping."

Then Lennon murmurs in her ear, low and commanding, "You're also going to take me in your mouth. Can you handle that, princess?"

"Yes," she gasps. "Please."

"Good girl," Lennon murmurs.

I open my eyes in time to see him nip her bottom lip—and then, slowly, he lowers her onto me.

The moment her heat begins to slide down around my cock, I lose all control. An unholy sound tears from my chest, matched by her breathy mewl as she tries to take all of me. She's so damn tight, so hot, it's like my body's going to shatter from the inside out. I bite down on her shoulder, gripping her hips hard, trying not to slam into her like an animal.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Somewhere in the haze, I register more sounds—her moaning, Lennon's belt unbuckling, the soft rustle of jeans being shoved down. Then flashes of her sucking him in, her lips stretching around him, her moans going muffled as she takes him deeper.

I think I hear the door creak open at one point, but I don't give a single shit. Dean could be standing there. Hell, the entire church choir could show up and I still wouldn't stop. They could take notes if they want—or Dean could join in, if Hailey asked for it. None of it matters. Nothing matters but her.

My mind is wrecked, overloaded with raw sensation. Her pussy milking me. Her mouth stretched around Lennon. Her body slick and writhing and perfect. All I want is to make her feel good. To make her come so hard she forgets her own name. To watch her fall apart while she moans around Lennon's cock.

Lennon strokes her hair, voice low and rough. "Yeah, baby. Like that. You're doing so fucking good."

And fuck me—hearing him say that makes her even wetter.

I've never seen this side of Lennon before. Didn't even know dirty talk was in his vocabulary. But judging by the look on his face—half-wild, all-in—he's as far gone as I am.

We fall into a rhythm. One that's hot and fluid and fucking devastating. It doesn't take long before we're all careening toward the edge.

Hailey gets there first—and Lennon and I are right behind her.

Sleep. It's been a problem ever since my time in Afghanistan. They say around a quarter of combat veterans suffer from PTSD. For some, it's depression. For others, it's guilt. But for me, it's more visceral than that—it's the nightmares.

Not every night. Just sometimes. And there's no rhyme or reason to it. Doesn't matter what I've eaten, how much I've had to drink, how tired I am, or how the day went. Calm or chaotic, exhausted or wired—it just hits. Like some bastard switch in my brain flips without warning.

And when it does, this is where I go.

The dream always starts the same.

I'm huddled under jagged rocks, thorns digging into my back, the air thick with blood and smoke. Somewhere nearby, men are laughing in a language I recognize but don't speak—the kind of laughter that says they've got you cornered, and they know you know it, and they're enjoying it.

Sweat slicks my skin. My hands grip my rifle like it's a lifeline, but it won't save me. We're outnumbered. Outgunned. Dean and Lennon had been covering the flank, but… hell. Dean was the first to go—sacrificing himself to draw their fire so the rest of us could run. His body was ripped to shreds in a blink. Lennon—the only one to really return any fire—took a hit right before I dove for cover. I saw him drop, bullets tearing through him—and now I'm alone. The last survivor. I have no ammunition, no cover, no back-up coming to rescue me.

And I know I'm next.

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