Page 83 of Knot Her Beta

Leif

Icatch Emily as she leaves the worksite. “Hey, do you have plans for lunch?”

Her stride falters a half-step, steel-toed boots caked with mud, and she cuts me a sideways look that’s equal parts amusement and knowing. “I packed a sandwich. It’s in the trailer.”

I fall into step beside her, matching her pace across a flattened stretch of dirt. Her fitted work shirt is dusty at the collar, grayed with a day’s worth of drywall dust and the general grit of construction. The afternoon light angles through the pines, catching the silver strands of her hair.

“Professor.” Her husky greeting curls around me. “Are you playing hooky from school today?”

“No meetings on Thursday.”

“Lucky you.” Her pace quickens.

The work trailer sits on a poured concrete slab, its aluminum siding dented in a dozen places, the door hanging slightly crooked on its hinges.

“It’s been quiet since Grady came back,” I venture.

Grady’s been on and off the island for the last week, getting everything ready to move into his new cabin this weekend. It means he’s been too busy to visit after that first night back.

We reach the trailer steps, and Emily goes first, her boots heavy on the metal grating. I follow, pulling the door shut behind us, and the latch hasn’t fully clicked before I’m turning, taking her face in my hands.

Her jaw is warm under my palms, and when I lean down to kiss her, she meets me halfway. My thumbs brush along her cheekbones, and her fingers curl into the front of my button up.

Her grip tightens, tugging me closer, and whatever restraint I planned dissolves on the spot. I walk her backward until her shoulders meet the trailer wall, my body pressed along her length, her height letting her meet me almost chest to chest.

A ragged sound catches in her throat as my hands find the hem of her work shirt. They slide beneath it, palms flat over her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin through the dust and sweat of the day. She arches into the touch, her ribcage expanding under my hands, and tips her head back.

I take the invitation.

My mouth drags down the column of her neck, licking away the salt of her sweat. Her pulse jumps under my lips, and I chase it, teeth grazing the point where her throat meets her shoulder. She exhales through her nose, and her hand fists in my hair to yank me back up.

Suddenly in a rush, I undo her buttons.

Her shirt hits the floor first, the sleeves catching on her wrists until she pulls free. Her bra follows, the clasp undone with a twist of my fingers, and the cotton lands somewhere near her boots.

I pull back far enough to look at her, then take her by the hips and walk her the few steps to the metal desk.

The late afternoon light coming through the trailer’s single window catches the planes of her shoulders, the powerful lines of her torso where muscle meets softness. Her breasts are full, dusky nipples already tightening in the cool air, and I cup her, thumbs brushing across them in slow circles, and she makes that sound again, lower this time, catching in her throat.

I lower my head, and as my mouth finds her left breast, she gasps. I suck, rolling my tongue around her nipple, and her hand flies to grip the desk behind her as her breathing fractures into short, uneven gasps.

I switch to her right breast, my free hand still caressing her left, and her head drops back. My pheromones bloom, filling the small, enclosed space, and beneath it I catch the answering crush of clover rising from her skin. Her fingers tighten in my hair as her hips rock forward, seeking friction.

I look up from her breast to find her jaw set, lips parted, gray eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on the ceiling. Her breathing breaks completely, coming in ragged gasps, and her thighs tense against mine where we’re pressed together.

I drop to my knees.

My hands find the button of her work pants, pop it open, and drag the zipper down in one smooth pull. The heavy canvas catches on her hips, and she lifts to help me, one hand braced on my shoulder as I tug the pants down her thighs. Her underwear comes with them, dark cotton bunched around her boots, and I leave them there, pooled at her ankles.

I look up at her in question.

Her fingers tighten in my hair, the grip just shy of pain, and she holds me there in answer.

My mouth finds the inside of her thigh, tasting salt and the faint musk of a day’s work. My lips trace higher, along the crease where thigh meets hip, and she moans, her hips shifting forward to meet me.

When my tongue finds her, a growl tears from her throat in a way that sends my pulse racing.

I take my time, spreading her folds open to circle her clit with my tongue, reading every shift in her breathing, every tightening of her fingers in my hair. Her thighs tremble beneath my hands as she fights the urge to rock into my mouth.