Page 48 of Left Cold, Wolf Owned
"Yeah," I reply, stroking slowly, watching his jaw tighten. "That's what I thought."
His forehead drops to mine. "You're going to be the end of me," he tells me.
"Not yet," I reply. "Not for a while."
He positions himself at my entrance, and I feel the broad head of his cock pressing against me—hot and insistent—and he pauses there, his gray eyes finding mine with the full, open attention he gives everything that matters.
"Still good?" he checks.
"If you stop now, I will never forgive you," I inform him.
He pushes forward slowly.
The stretch of him fills me completely—deeper than I expected, fuller, the kind of fullness that knocks the air out of you on the way in and makes you want to stay full forever—and a sound comes out of me that I have never made before and that I feel no need to apologize for.
"God," I breathe.
"Okay?" he asks, pausing, jaw tight with the effort of holding still.
"Move," I tell him. "Please. For the Love of God. Move."
He does exactly that.
He finds his rhythm with the same deliberate patience as everything else—deep, thorough strokes that I feel from my hips to my sternum—and I wrap my legs around him and pull him deeper and feel him groan against my temple at the change in angle. His cock fills me on every stroke and withdraws with a slow drag that makes me claw at his back for more, and he gives me more, unhurried and relentless and entirely focused.
"You feel—" he starts, roughly.
"Tell me," I breathe out.
"Perfect," he says, low and certain. "You feel perfect."
He shifts—sits back, drawing me up with him so I'm straddling his lap, face-to-face in the low firelight, his hands gripping my hips with a firmness that I feel in my bones. The new angle takes him impossibly deeper, and I feel it everywhere—a fullness that makes my eyes close and my head fall back, a feeling I have never felt before.
"Look at me," he tells me, quiet and steady.
I look at him.
Steel-gray eyes fully open, every piece of the careful composure he wears for the rest of the world entirely gone—this, him, us, in this dim, warm cabin with the mountain quiet around us—and I start to move.
I roll my hips and find the angle and keep it, and he meets every movement with the grip on my hips, guiding rather than directing, and the pleasure builds with a speed and intensity that makes the first orgasm feel like a warm-up. I brace my hands on his shoulders and ride him and feel him respond—the tightening of his grip, the rough sound he makes against my collarbone, and the way his cock throbs inside me when I find the rhythm that works for both of us and commit to it.
"Harper," he says, wrecked and low.
"Don't stop," I tell him. "Don't you dare stop."
His hand slides between us, and his thumb finds my clit and presses, and I detonate.
The orgasm tears through me from the inside out—not the rolling wave of the first one but something that starts at my center and radiates outward through every nerve ending I own, my pussy clenching around him, his name ripping out of my throat loud enough that I'd be embarrassed about it if I had any capacity left for embarrassment. He follows me over with his arms locked around me and my name on his lips like something he's been holding and has finally been allowed to say out loud, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he comes apart.
We stay there tangled together, both breathing like we've survived something.
His hand moves in slow circles on my back.
The mountain settles around the cabin.
Neither of us says anything for a long time, and neither of us needs to.
I wake to the dark and the sound of his breathing and the weight of his arm across my waist, heavy and warm and entirely deliberate even in sleep.
