Page 101 of Rejected Hollow

After that, he began to move.

He kept the pace slow, lifting me and lowering me over him while his hands and arms supported almost all of my weight. Each movement brought him deep inside me before drawing him back again, and I stopped trying to anticipate the rhythm and simply let him carry me through it.

I held on to his shoulders and then his neck, kissing whatever part of him I could reach: his cheek, his jaw, the pale scars along his face, the damp skin near his temple.

He talked to me the whole time in that low, rough voice of his. There was nothing polished about what he said. It was only simple things repeated between breaths.

“That’s it.”

“So good.”

“So beautiful.”

“Sweetheart.”

He kept saying that one until it stopped sounding like a word and became something I felt every time it left his mouth.

I could feel another orgasm beginning before I was ready for it, gathering deeper than the first. Each slow lift of his hips pressed into a place inside me that made my breath catch, while the movement of my body against his kept rubbing my clit exactly where I needed it.

“Silas,” I gasped. “Silas, I’m going to—”

“I know.”

His breath was hot against my neck.

“I’ve got you. Let go. I’ve got you.”

So I did.

I came with my arms locked around him and my face buried against his neck, his name breaking apart in my mouth while my body clenched hard around his cock.

The orgasm seemed to keep going, one contraction following another, until I felt his control finally break with mine.

His arms locked around me. His hips drove upward once, then again, and a deep, wrecked groan tore out of him as he came, my name buried somewhere inside the sound.

Afterward, neither of us moved.

He stayed sitting in the middle of my narrow iron bed with me still wrapped around him, his forehead resting against my shoulder while we both tried to catch our breath.

When he finally laid me down, he did not treat the moment as though intimacy had ended simply because the sex had.

Jax had taken care of me when I was injured, bringing blankets and water and making sure the door stayed locked. But nobody I had ever slept with had treated what happened afterward as something that mattered too.

Silas settled me against the pillows before getting out of bed. He warmed water on the little stove, poured some into a tin cup, and wet a cloth with it.

Then he came back and cleaned me.

There was nothing awkward or embarrassed in the way he did it. He moved slowly and carefully, wiping the damp cloth between my thighs with such gentle attention that my throat tightened.

Afterward, he brought me water and held the glass while I drank.

Then he pulled the blankets over me.

For a moment, he stood beside the bed looking strangely uncertain. Finally, he climbed under the blankets too, and the mattress dipped deeply beneath his weight until I rolled naturally toward him.

I stayed there.

His body was warm against mine. One arm settled around me, and his hand came to rest across my stomach, broad and heavy over the silver lines there.