Page 79 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
His voice rasps against my mouth. “Home’s got a leaky sink.”
“Fix it tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“Tomorrow.”
The beach house creaks a welcome as Aeron turns the key—my key—in the lock. His thumb pauses on the compass etchedinto the brass, ocean-worn boots hovering on the salvaged schooner wood of the porch.
“Sunflower Blitz,” he murmurs, tracing the shutter with his knuckle.
“It’s yellow, not a manifesto.” I nudge him inside, but he catches my wrist, spins me gently against the doorframe. His touch lingers on the paint-chip scars along my collarbone, the ones I got hauling lumber for the attic darkroom.
“Steady work.” He kisses each nick, lips chapped from sea wind. “But you didn’t sand the edges.”
“Hazard of the trade.”
He unknots my camera strap, sets it on the hallway table next to his Harbor Master badge. Our reflections blur in its polished surface—silver and chestnut, sea-roughened hands bracketing ink-stained ones.
The bedroom smells of turpentine and the lavender sachets I stole from Rowan’s shop. Aeron’s shirt hits the floor first, that faint moonlight shimmer on his skin making my throat clench. I reach for his belt, but he stills me with a palm to my sternum.
“Let me.”
He peels my jeans down slowly, callouses catching on the goosebumps rising along my thighs. His mouth follows—ankle, knee, the crease of my hip where a bruise blooms from yesterday’s darkroom ladder mishap.
“Still can’t climb straight,” he mutters against the purple stain.
“Still can’t resist critiquing.”
He bites the inside of my thigh, not hard, but enough to coil heat low in my belly. The bedframe groans as he lays me back on sheets still smelling of salt from last week’s open window storm.
His cock lies heavy against my stomach, warm and thicker than I’d imagined in those stolen glances at the docks. He watches me stare, sea-green eyes darkening.
“Still time to run,” he says, but his voice cracks on the last syllable.
My nails dig into the scar on his shoulder. “Don’tdaresound noble now.”
The first thrust in my pussy steals my breath. He moves like the tide—relentless but patient, letting the ache build until I’m arching for more. My heel slips on sweat-slicked sheets as he pins my wrists, fingers interlacing.
“Look at me.” His command isn’t harsh, just unwavering. When I do, he smiles—that rare, unguarded grin I’ve only seen when he fixes something broken. “There she is.”
The praise unravels me. I fist the sheets, but he tugs my hand back to his mouth, sucking two fingers while his hips snap harder. Our rhythm fractures into gasps and fractured phrases—more hereandgod your mouthandfifteen years I’ve…
His hips roll in a rhythm that mirrors the tide beyond the salt-stained windows—relentless but reverent. Every drag of his cock inside me sparks heat low in my belly, the stretch and burn of him pulling away only to surge back deeper. My calves lock around his waist as he braces on his forearms, silver hair falling loose from its tie to curtain our faces.
“Evie, God, yes…” His voice scrapes raw as barnacle rock, thumb brushing a sweaty strand from my temple.
I dig nails into the scar tissue on his shoulder, my back arching when he angles up.
His teeth graze my earlobe. “Look how perfectly we fit.”
The words unravel me. My heel slides against the small of his back, urging him closer. He obeys, grinding his pelvis against my clit in slow circles that steal my breath. Our mouths collide—salt and urgency and a hint of lavender from the sachets crushed beneath us.
When he shifts to prop my knee over his shoulder, the new angle punches a gasp from my throat. His palm splays across my stomach as if mapping uncharted shores. “Here?”
“Faster—”
“No.” His thumb finds my nipple, pinching just shy of pain. “You don’t run from this.”
