Page 34 of On Tap for the Bear
The zipper slides down with a soft rasp. Cool air hits my spine and I shiver, goosebumps rising across my shoulders. Then Eli's hands are there—palms rough, callused, scorching hot against my bare skin. He peels the dress down slowly, exposing one shoulder, then the other. His mouth follows, lips and teeth and tongue tracing the path of fabric. A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
"Don't." His eyes meet mine, pupils blown wide. "Don't hold back."
So I don't.
His mouth closes over my breast through the thin lace of my bra and a moan tears from my throat. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there. His hand slides up my inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and his name comes out broken. "Eli...”
He growls against my skin. His fingers dig into my hip, possessive and demanding. When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and slides them down my legs, his hands tremble. The fabric catches on one ankle and he curses, fumbling with it.
"Protection?" The word comes out strangled.
"I'm clean. On birth control." I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. "You?"
"Clean. But Quinn, if you want to wait...”
"I'm done waiting." I get his belt open, his jeans unbuttoned. "I want this. I want you."
He helps me with the rest, shedding clothes with practiced efficiency, and then there's nothing between us. Just skin and heat and need.
The bar’s edge digs into my thighs as Eli pulls me closer. His forehead rests against mine, our breath coming fast and ragged, suspended in this moment between before and after.
"Last chance." His voice barely sounds human. "We do this, everything changes."
"Good." I wrap my legs around his hips. "I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."
He enters me in one slow, devastating thrust, and the world narrows to just this. The stretch and burn and perfect fullness. The way his hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. The broken sound that tears from his throat.
He pulls back almost completely, then drives in again. Harder. Deeper. I gasp and my nails rake down his back. The rhythm starts rough, uncoordinated—all desperate need and wanting I didn't even know I carried. Days, maybe. Or longer. Maybe I've been waiting for this—for him—without knowing what I needed. My back arches, my hips rising to meet each thrust.
His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping, and I turn my head to give him access. One of his hands slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple through the lace, and pleasure sparks through me.
"Quinn." He groans my name against my throat. "God, Quinn."
I can't form words. Can only hold on as he moves inside me, each thrust hitting deeper, the friction building. The bar creaks behind us. Something glass—a bottle maybe—tips over and rolls to the floor with a crash. Neither of us stops.
His hand moves between us, fingers finding where we're joined, and when he touches me there I nearly come apart. The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter low in my belly.
When I come, it crashes through me like a wave. My vision whites out, my whole body seizing, clenching around him. I cryout—his name, maybe, or just wordless sound—and distantly I hear bottles rattling on the shelves behind the bar.
Eli follows seconds later with a guttural groan, his hips jerking once, twice, before he stills. His weight sags against me and I wrap my arms around him, holding him close. We're both shaking, gasping for air, slick with sweat.
The tavern comes back into focus slowly. The bar beneath me, sticky now. The cooling sweat on my skin. My dress somewhere on the floor. The broken bottle glittering near our feet.
Eli pulls back enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face. His pupils are still dilated, his lips swollen from kissing. A bead of sweat runs down his temple.
"Hey." I cup his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard under my palm. My thumb traces his lower lip. "I'm okay. More than okay."
His expression softens—something raw and unguarded flashing across his features before he ducks his head and kisses me. Soft this time. Tender. His lips move against mine like a promise, and I taste salt and cinnamon and us.
He helps me down from the bar, his hands steady on my waist as my legs wobble beneath me. My thighs are sticky, my muscles loose and uncoordinated. I grip his forearms for balance.
He retrieves his flannel from where it landed near the beer taps and holds it open for me. I slip my arms into the sleeves, grateful for the warmth and the scent of him—cedar and smoke and something wild—surrounding me. The fabric hangs to mid-thigh, the sleeves falling past my fingertips.
Eli pulls on his jeans, leaving them unbuttoned, the waistband riding low on his hips. A trail of dark hair disappears below the denim. We stand there in the dim light of the tavern,looking at each other. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly. My lips feel swollen, tender.
"I should probably...” I gesture vaguely toward my abandoned dress.
"Stay." He catches my hand. "Just for a minute."
