Page 103 of Hellbent
My momentum carries us both down. He sinks to the floor with me, back against the wall, pulling me into his lap, tucking my head under his chin.
I cry until I can't breathe, until there’s nothing left. Until the grief burns itself out. The tears don’t stop so much as soften, like waves rippling out from a storm, leaving emptiness in their wake. I let him rock me, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek as everything in me releases, lets go, and gets washed away.
He smells like pine and warmth. Like the forest at night. I breathe it in deep, letting the scent soothe all my raw, jagged edges until a strange, empty calm comes over me.
At first I don’t notice how close we are, only that my cheek pressed into the crook of his neck is comfort.
It happens gradually.
The rocking slows, then stops. His hand moves in my hair, his thumb tracing lazy strokes along my scalp.
I exhale, long and low.
And then it starts. A tug deep in my belly. A flicker of awareness under my skin.
A stillness settles between us, electric and suspended, and I feel a change in his breathing. The way his thumb pauses, just for a second.
I become aware that I’m sitting in his lap. That he’s shirtless—hot skin against mine, muscles solid beneath my hands, his breath brushing the top of my head.
And me…I’m basically naked.
Just a towel, damp and loose. My body pressed to his—it hasn’t even registered until now. My thighs bare across his jeans. The curve of my hip flush against his abdomen.
We’re skin to skin. And as the realization steals my breath, his hand slips from my hair to the nape of my neck, tracing downthe line of my spine, sparking electric currents over my skin in its wake.
Something urgent awakens in me.
A rising response in my body, a need. A hunger. Pressed against him like this, I can feel the ache bloom, wide and desperate.
I tilt my face upward, my lips brushing against his neck, my nose brushing against his jaw, and he exhales a rough breath. One of his hands slides down to grip the curve of my thigh, and I shift instinctively, swinging my leg over his lap until I’m straddling him, and pressing the front of my body against his, wrapping my arms around the unholy breadth of his shoulders, pressing myself tight against him.
His mouth finds the side of my throat, his lips brushing my skin, and I suck in a shuddering breath as every nerve awakens at once. His teeth graze the skin beneath my ear, then bite—just enough to make my hips jolt. Heat floods between my legs, sudden and slick.
His hands roam lower, gripping my ass, rough on bare skin, the towel bunched at my waist. He hauls me against him like he needs me as close as I need him, and I feel the thick ridge of his cock beneath me, straining through denim. It makes me ache. Makes me throb. Makes me want to tear his clothes off with my teeth.
I lift my eyes to his and see my own intensity reflected back at me. Pupils blown, lips parted, raw need emanating off of him. And then he crashes his mouth against mine.
His kiss is powerful, desperate, and I meet him right there, gasping into his mouth, fingers running up into his hair, grinding down against him.
With one hand, he rips the towel away and flings it aside. I reach between us, fumbling with his zipper with shaking fingers, while he leans back and lets me do it, chest heaving.
I push his jeans down just enough, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, fucking beautiful.
I stare for a second—shocked by how much I want it. How much I want him.
Needhim.
I suck in a breath, and then he’s pulling me back against him, mouth finding mine again with rough urgency, skin on skin, the head of his cock sliding against the slick heat between my legs.
I reach down and guide him to me, and then I slide down the huge girth of him, slow and tight and aching. So deep it feels like he’s breaking me open.
A sound tears out of his throat as he fills me completely. His fingers dig into my hips. He grits his teeth and rolls his head back as I move on top of him—a slow, grinding rhythm that he rises into, every stroke building pressure behind my clit, a slow, merciless push toward the edge.
I become aware that I’m crying out. That he is. Grunts and moans and wild, panting breaths. I’m clawing his back, pulling his hair. He’s biting my neck, our bodies slamming together in a rhythm too desperate to hold back.
The pressure builds in me until it’s unbearable—and then I detonate.
The breath punches out of my lungs, my body clenches tight around him, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders, gasping, grinding against him as the climax rips through me.
