Page 95 of Dreadful

I can’t tell if he’s seen us yet, and I’m not sure what to do if he has. All I do know is that I don’t want to stop.

Then, like he can read my thoughts, he turns his head slowly. How I can feel his gaze dragging over every inch of me is a mystery I don’t want to investigate tonight.

Just as quickly, he starts moving again at a slow, deliberate pace—like he never stopped at all, like he didn’t just find me riding his brother in the backyard.

He walks straight to the chair by the patio door, the one Rafe dragged out that first night for watch and never brought back inside.

It’s too dark, and he’s too far away, but I’d bet my cut from the casino chips that he’s staring at us.

Is he’s going to sit there and watch all night?

Defiance radiates off his straight line of his shoulders, his frame sitting tall and still in the chair. He crosses one ankle over the other knee, his hands resting on the armrests.

He’s not going back inside.

Fine, I think, an almost cruel spark of defiance rising to meet his. You want to watch? Then fucking watch.

I shift my hips, lifting off him for a breath. The sudden emptiness is a shock of cold air, and we both groan at the loss. Then I’m on my knees, palms flat on the damp cushions.

“Oh, hell yeah.” His low voice rumbles through the dark as his hands find my hips. The head of his cock presses against me, and then he’s sliding back inside—a slow, deliberate stretch that makes my breath catch.

“Goddamn, Bell. How is it possible for you to feel so. Fucking. Good,” he practically pants, thrusting in time with the last few words.

Everything narrows to this—the deeper angle and the way his cock hits that secret place that makes my thighs tremble. My breath catches in ragged hitches. The world dissolves into the slick sound of skin meeting skin, the creak of the daybed, the low groan he makes when I clench around him.

I sink my fingers into the cushion as a high, thin sound catches in my throat.

“Oh fuck,” I moan out as the first wave builds low in my belly— a tight, coiling pressure that sharpens with every movement. “I—I think⁠—”

“I know, sugar. Give it to me.” He palms my ass cheeks, gently parting them as he helps me keep my groove.

I feel open and exposed, and it only ramps up my pleasure. It builds and grows until my fingers and toes start to tingle.

“Gage, I—I’m going to come,” I murmur, my toes curling with pleasure.

“Come, sugar. I want to feel you come on my cock.” It’s the perfect kind of command.

Nonsensical words tumble from my mouth as ecstasy implodes inside of me in an endless wave. Every muscle clenches tight as white sparks flash before my eyes. It’s pleasure so acute it almost hurts.

A choked sound escapes my throat, and my arms give out. Gage catches me with an arm around my middle, holding me up as he continues to fuck me.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps against my ear, his voice gravel and heat.

A half-sob tears loose from my throat. He holds me there, suspended between pleasure and oblivion, as he continues to hit my g-spot until the world dissolves into sensation once more.

Tears streak hot down my temples, sliding past my ears into the damp cushion.

I am weightless and free. Shattered, and held together only by the grip of his hands and the pulse of him inside me. Everything else has gone quiet—the water lapping against the pool’s edge, the palm fronds rustling somewhere behind the fence—and I’m untethered, floating above my own body in some sort of out-of-body orgasmic experience.

And the entire time, Gage is there, talking me through it with that low, gravelly murmur against my ear.

“Hold on, sugar.”

“I’ve got you, Bell.”

“That’s right.”

“Goddamn, you feel so fucking good.”