Page 56 of Haunted By the Storm
“Gonna make you come again,” he says, mouth brushing my cheek. “But I need to feel you around my fingers first.”
One finger slips inside me, then another, thick and slow. My hips roll, chasing the stretch, the pressure, the rhythm. He crooks his fingers just right, thumb circling, and it hits fast, hot, tight, a flood building at the base of my spine.
“Oh God, Storm?—”
“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you.”
And I do. I break open around him, trembling, crying out, nails digging into his arm as the orgasm crashes over me. He kisses me through it, murmuring how perfect I am, how good I feel, how much he loves making me fall apart.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even let me catch my breath before he slides down, his mouth replacing his fingers, licking me with long, slow strokes that make my thighs shake.
I whimper, still sensitive, but he doesn’t back off. He groans against me like I’m his favorite thing in the world.
And he’s right back to driving me toward that edge. Again.
When he pushes me over a second time, it’s messier, deeper. I gasp his name, legs wrapped around his shoulders, grinding into his face shamelessly because I can’t help it, can’t think. I can only feel.
He finally comes up for air, face flushed, lips wet, and crawls over me, kissing his way up my body until he’s hovering above me, chest to chest. I wrap my legs around his waist, arms pulling him in.
“You ready?” he asks, cock hard and heavy against my thigh.
“God, yes,” I breathe. “I need you inside me. Now.”
He slides in slow, the tip of him stretching me open, until he bottoms out with a guttural moan.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants against my mouth. “You feel like heaven.”
We stay still for a moment, soaking in it; how right it feels, how full I am, how connected we are. Then he starts to move, using long, deep strokes that have me gasping into his shoulder, fingers curling into his back.
There’s no rush. No frantic pace. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people who know they’re not going anywhere. Each thrust is deliberate, each kiss like a promise. He rocks into me, filling me over and over until I’m clinging to him, nails digging in, breath coming in short, high gasps.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against my ear. “Every fucking inch. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I whimper, “I know I’m yours.”
He kisses me hard, hips driving deeper, pace quickening just enough to push us both higher.
When I come, it hits with a cry muffled against his neck, my whole body tightening around him. That’s all it takes for him to follow with a growl, slamming into me with one last thrust, cock pulsing inside the condom as he spills everything he has.
We collapse together, tangled, sweaty, spent. He rolls to the side and pulls me with him, arms wrapping around me tight.
Silence settles over us, the kind that feels full, not empty. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the slowing beat of his heart, his hand stroking lazy circles on my back.
And just like that, the thoughts creep back in. Not in a bad way, just soft, curious, hopeful.
What now? What happens next?
Because it’s not just sex. Not with him. It never was.
Wrapped in his arms, still sore and sated and floating, I know I’ll be thinking about that question all day. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the future can wait a little while longer.
"We should go to my house today," I say, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "Emily will want her things and I need to check on everything, make sure it's still secure."
He tenses slightly beneath my hand. "I'll come with you."
"Of course," I agree. "I wasn't suggesting otherwise."
He relaxes, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Just making sure. Even with Cantlay backing off and Eric... taken care of, I'm not taking any chances."
