His gaze combed my face, like he was memorizing every detail.
He stroked my cheek with his thumb. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Stop.” No one had ever looked at me so intently.
No one but these men — these men who’d won me in the Hunt — had ever seen me so clearly.
So completely.
“I won’t stop,” he said, staring into my eyes. “You need to hear it every day. You need to hear it until you believe it.”
“If I’m beautiful, it’s because you made me beautiful.” I didn’t think I’d realized it was true until that moment. “You made me beautiful by letting me become the person I was always meant to be. The person I was all along without knowing it. That’s why I love you so much.”
He groaned and lowered his mouth to mine.
His tongue was hot and demanding, stroking through my mouth with an urgency my body understood.
I opened my thighs and moaned when he sank against my needy cunt. His dick was already huge and hard, the fabric of our jeans the only barrier between our bodies, a flimsy partition that only stoked the fire sweeping through me with every sweep of his tongue.
He rocked his hips against my pelvis and an orgasm sparked to life with the friction on my clit. We were like two teenagers dry humping in the back seat of a car, our hunger for each other obliterating everything outside of this moment.
He tilted his head over mine, pushing his tongue deeper into my mouth, occupying me like an invading army, leaving no corner unexplored as his hands slid down my neck, over my tits, down to my stomach.
I broke the kiss, gasping for breath, when he reached for the hem of my shirt, his intention clear.
“Freya…”
“She’ll come back when she’s ready.” He lifted my shirt and pulled down the front of my bra, exposing my nipple to the warm autumn air. “She won’t stay away just because I’m fucking you.”
He took my nipple in his mouth and sucked.
I cried out, arching my back, urging him to take more of me.
All of me.
He kneaded my other tit with his hand while he sucked and lapped, still pressing his dick into my pussy with urgent thrusts.
He was getting bigger and harder while I got wetter and hotter. Our need for each other, already at a fever pitch after the close call at the paper mill, grew with every thrust of his hips, every stroke of his denim-clad cock against my desperate cunt.
“I need you naked,” he said, pulling at my shirt.
He gasped, a flash of pain crossing his face, when he yanked it off my head.
“We should stop,” I gasped. “It’s too soon.”
“No such thing,” he grunted, reaching around to unclip my bra. “I’ve wanted to be inside you since the minute they took that fucking tube out of my throat.”
“Will it hurt you if I take off your shirt?” My chest rose and fell with my shallow breath.
“Fuck no. And if it does, it’ll be worth it.”
“Not reassuring.”
“Pull it off,” he said.
I lifted the T-shirt carefully over his head, revealing his inked chest a little at a time.
But now there was more than ink and muscles: there were cuts and abrasions, still healing, from the grenade, plus the silver antimicrobial bandage that still covered his burn.