Page 42 of Echo: Burn
"Look at me," he commands. "I want to see your eyes when I take you."
I meet his gaze, and I let him see everything—trust, desire, acceptance. All of it laid bare.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says, even though I can see how hard it is for him to hold back.
"It won't be." My hands grip his shoulders, legs wrapping around his hips. "I trust you."
Those words break him.
He pushes inside slowly, and I feel myself stretch around him, taking him in inch by inch. He's big, filling me completely, and the small sounds escaping me—breathy gasps and moans—seem to drive him wild. When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt, he stills.
My eyes are wide, lips parted, chest heaving. "You're so deep."
"Too much?"
"No." I experimentally roll my hips, and we both groan. "Move. Please move."
He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in. I cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Building a rhythm that has both of us gasping, reaching for something just beyond our grasp.
My legs wrap tighter around his hips, changing the angle, pulling him deeper. He drops his head to my shoulder, breathing hard, fighting to maintain control when I can feel how close he is to losing it.
"Look at me." My hand finds his face, turns it toward mine. "I want to see you."
He meets my eyes and I see everything reflected there—acceptance, desire, something that might be love if we survive long enough to name it. The vulnerability of it nearly breaks me.
"Willa." My name is a prayer, a curse, a promise.
"I'm close." My internal muscles flutter around him. "So close."
He reaches between us, finds the bundle of nerves that makes me gasp. Circles it with his thumb while maintaining the steady thrust of his hips. My breathing speeds up, becomes erratic.
"Come for me," he tells me. "Let me feel it."
I shatter. Waves of pleasure ripple through me, pulling him deeper, demanding everything. I feel him follow three thrustslater, emptying himself inside me with a groan that comes from somewhere deep and primal.
We collapse together, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. He rolls to the side, taking me with him, keeping us connected. My head rests on his chest, over the scars, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.
The blizzard still rages outside. The Committee still hunts us. The war still waits beyond these walls.
But here, in this moment, with his body warm against mine and our hearts beating in sync, none of it matters.
His hand strokes through my hair, gentle and soothing. "So," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Was it worth the six-year wait?"
I prop myself up enough to look at him. "Are you seriously asking for a performance review right now?"
"Just wondering if I lived up to expectations."
I pretend to consider it. "Well, you did make some very bold promises about making it worth every year."
"And?"
"And..." I lean down to kiss him, soft and slow. "Yes. It was worth the wait."
"Good." He pulls me back down against his chest, and I feel the rumble of satisfaction in his voice. "Because I plan on making sure you never have to wait that long again."
Heat floods through me despite my exhaustion. "Is that a promise, Kane?"
"That's a guarantee, Willa."
