Page 36 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
The space between us is so small. Just inches. I can count the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His hand is still on my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
I close the distance. Kiss him hard.
For a heartbeat, he freezes—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty. His lips are still beneath mine, body rigid. Then something breaks in him and he's kissing me back, hand cupping the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with desperate need. His other hand finds my waist, palm hot even through the thermal layer, careful of my injured shoulder.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. We've both been alone too long, isolated in our separate hells. His beard scrapes against my skin, rough and real, grounding me in the moment. I taste coffee on his lips, feel the barely restrained power in the way he holds me—like he's afraid I'll break, afraid this isn't real.
I pull at his thermal shirt, need overriding caution. He helps me, strips it over his head in one smooth motion. His chest is mapped with scars—bullet wounds, knife marks, burns. Stories written in scar tissue that I want to read with my fingers, my mouth and my whole body.
My hands find his shoulders, trace the hard muscle there. His skin is hot beneath my palms, raised scars rough against my fingertips. He shudders at the touch, a full-body tremor that I feel through the points where we're connected.
"Your shoulder—" he starts, pulling back enough to meet my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, black swallowing brown. "Sierra, you're hurt. We shouldn't?—"
"I don't care." I grab his belt, yank him closer. The buckle digs into my hip and I welcome the pressure, the proof that this is real. "I need this. I need you."
His control breaks. He kisses me again, harder this time, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. Then he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.
"I don't have—" He stops, jaw tight. "Protection. I've been alone for eleven months. Wasn't exactly planning for this."
"I'm clean. Got tested right before Chicago." My hands find his face, force him to look at me. "You?"
"Same. Got my physical before the mission. That was over a year ago and there's been no one since then. No one but you." His thumb traces my jaw. "But there's still?—"
"I'm on birth control. Have been for years." I kiss him once, hard. "We're good. Unless you don't want?—"
"I want." His voice is rough, desperate. "God, I want."
His control breaks completely then. He kisses me again, hands moving to my waist, helping me out of my layers. The thermal base layer peels away, then the tank top underneath. He's so careful around my shoulder, gentle even in his urgency, fingers skating around the bandage.
The cold air hits my bare skin and I gasp into his mouth. He's warm—solid heat and muscle and barely leashed restraint. His hands map my sides, my ribs and the curve of my waist. Learning me through touch.
Before we sink onto the sleeping bag spread beneath us, he strips his remaining clothing away. The fabric is cold against my back, making me arch into him. He follows me down, settles between my thighs, his weight perfect and grounding.
He positions himself above me, forearms braced on either side of my head. Taking his weight off me but close enough that I can feel every tremor running through his body. His eyessearch mine, asking permission even though we're already past the point of no return.
I wrap my leg around his hip, guide him to where I need him most.
The first slide is slow. Careful. He watches my face, checking for pain, for any sign that my shoulder can't take this. But all I feel is him—thick and hard and perfect—filling spaces I didn't know were empty.
"God," he murmurs against my neck. "Sierra?—"
"Don't stop." My nails dig into his shoulders, find purchase in the muscles of his back. "Please don't stop."
He moves with controlled desperation, hips rolling in a rhythm that builds heat low in my belly. Each thrust sends sparks through my nervous system, pleasure overriding pain, making me forget about bullets and blood and everything that isn't this moment.
I meet him thrust for thrust, good leg locked around him, pulling him deeper. The shelter fills with the sounds of skin on skin, quiet gasps that neither of us can contain. His name falls from my lips like a prayer. “Chris, Chris, Chris.”
"I've got you." His voice is gravel and heat, mouth against my ear. "I've got you."
The coil of tension in my core winds tighter with each stroke. He shifts angle slightly and hits something inside me that makes my vision white out. I cry out, muffling the sound against his shoulder, teeth scraping skin.
"There," he growls, doing it again. "Right there."
The rhythm turns frantic. Hard and fast, chasing release like it's survival. Like we might not get another chance. His hand finds my hip, grips hard enough to bruise, holding me steady as he drives into me with single-minded focus.
When I climax, it's sudden and overwhelming—pleasure crashes through me like an avalanche, leaving me shaking,clenching around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. I feel him swell inside me, hear his breathing go ragged.
Chris follows seconds later with a choked sound, body locked against mine, every muscle going rigid as he spills into me. His face is buried in the curve of my neck, beard rough against sensitive skin.
