Page 12 of Mountain Man's River Rush
I felt the thick head of his cock nudge against my entrance, and then he sank into me in one smooth, powerful stroke.
I cried out at the sudden stretch, the deep, perfect fullness. He groaned low behind me, both hands gripping my hips as he started to move. The sound of our bodies slapping together mixed with the constant wet splash and slosh of the river water around our legs. Every hard thrust sent droplets flying, the current swirling around us like it was trying to pull us downstream.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice tight. “So hot and tight around me.”
He drove into me harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder, more urgent. I pushed back to meet every thrust, moaning shamelessly with each stroke. I felt my own orgasm building and I moved my fingers to my clit and began rubbing, whimpering as warmth spread through me.
His rhythm started to falter, hips stuttering.
“Lincoln—” he groaned, burying himself deep. “I’m gonna come inside you.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Please?—”
As my own orgasm tore through me, he slammed into me one last time and came with a rough, broken sound, pulsing hot and deep as he filled me. His fingers dug into my hips, holding me tight against him while he rode out every shuddering wave. The water sloshed wildly around our legs, then slowly settled as we both went still.
We floated on our backs in the shallows afterward, side by side, fingers loosely linked. The current was just enough to rock us—a slow, easy drift that moved us downstream by inches. The sky above us was enormous, blue and cloudless, and the mountain laurel leaned over the banks like it was trying to get a better look.
My body was humming. Not the restless hum, not the running hum. The still hum. The one that meant every part of me was exactly where it wanted to be.
“Wells?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the first day I showed up? When I wanted to run the Tempest at 5:45 in the evening?”
“I remember you getting out of your car and leaving the door wide open, like you expected me to say ‘no.’”
“Youdidsay no. You told me the river wasn’t going anywhere.”
“I did.”
“You were right.” I squeezed his hand. “It’s still here. You’re still here, and I’m still here.”
He turned his head to look at me. Water running off his jaw, sun on his face, eyes the color of river water over mossy stone. The same eyes that had looked at me across a raft in the gorge and seen something worth losing focus for.
“You saw the rock,” he said.
I laughed. Five years, and it still meant the same thing. Our shorthand. Our origin story. The moment he’d lost his focus and I’d caught what he missed, and both of us understood that we were better on the water together than either of us had ever been alone.
“I saw the rock,” I said.
He pulled me toward him through the shallows, water sluicing between us, and kissed me—slow, warm, tasting like the river. The current drifted us downstream. Somewhere back at Wildwood River Co., Flint was letting our daughter boss him around and our son was throwing rocks into a bucket, and the whiteboard had no trips listed, and the gorge was running empty, and the whole river was ours.
I’d come to Wildwood Valley five years ago looking for a rush. I’d found something better. I’d found a man who made me want to be still, and a river that never stopped moving, and a life built right at the place where those two things met.
I wasn’t running anymore. I was floating. And the current was carrying me exactly where I wanted to go.
