He presses a kiss to my forehead, my nose, my chin. The place between my breasts. My belly button. My legs fall open in surrender. And then he presses a kiss to my sex. He licks from bottom to top, lingering to draw around my clit. A circle. A triangle. A square. I let out a breathless laugh. Then he sucks on my clit in earnest, fluttering his tongue, and I moan, grasping his hair in my fists, shamelessly rubbing against his face.
Right when I’m about to come, he pulls back.
“No,” I moan.
He quirks his lips. “Remember what I said. I want you squirting on my cock.”
“Is that what I did?”
“That’s what you’re about to do.” He notches his cock against my sex, and this time I don’t ask him to wait. This time he presses forward, and he’s right. Even without a hymen, even though I’m not a virgin in the most technical sense, it sort of hurts. It’s definitely a stretching sensation. I suck in a breath, and he pushes deeper.
“Oh God, you feel good,” he mutters.
With a final thrust, he pushes all the way inside. His hips are flush with my thighs.
My mouth opens on a silent cry. I feel incredibly full. Too full. I pant through the sensation. He holds still to let me get used to him. “Okay?” he asks, his voice tense.
“Okay,” I say, too high pitched to be believed.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, and I hear the echo of when he said that before. In the hallway, right before he put his hand beneath my nightgown and made me come.
“Don’t stop.”
“Fuck,” he says, and then he’s pulling out and pushing back inside. Each thrust pushes deeper somehow. It feels like too much until his thumb finds my clit. He rubs using the same rhythm, and soon I’m melting against the bed, turning into a puddle of arousal.
“What number is this?” I ask, breathless.
“Number six?” he asks, more a question. “Seven?”
Another thrust inside me. “Eight. Nine. Ten.” He’s counting every single push, and I can’t disagree. Each one feels like a revelation. Each one sends pleasure cascading through my body. Soon my hips rise up to meet him, little breathy moans escaping me each time.
He’s moving faster and faster, harder and harder. I’m losing my grip on reality. Everything is a blur. Everything is sensation. He chokes on a cry and throws his head back. I watch his throat work as he comes, his tendons straining, his muscles taut. His hand holds my hips in place, leaving bruises on my skin. His other hand presses tight against my clit. The sight of him in rapture is what sends me over. I grind my hips against his sweet pressure, gasping, riding myself through the final waves of orgasm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jane Mendoza
I’m not cold. I’m warm. Uncomfortably warm, actually.
I’m standing outside on the cliff where the grass and dirt are rolled back like a rug, the core of the mountain exposed. Wind whips around me, blowing my hair into my eyes. They sting.
The sky above me is filled with fog. No, it’s smoke—gray and billowing.
I look down. Instead of a stormy sea, there’s lava bubbling up from the center of the earth. It’s red and angry and active, eating at the mountain, trying to consume it. More and more lava spurts from beneath us, making the level rise. I watch it come closer and feel the heat wash over me. Pretty soon there will be no rock left to stand on.
The lava will swallow me, and I’ll become ash in its fiery waves.
A gasp. Smoke fills my throat, and I cough.
It was a dream, the lava climbing the cliffside. I’m not standing outside; I’m in my bedroom, half-asleep. The smoke is real. It fills my nostrils, my mouth. It coats my eyes in grit.
Beau is beside me, already pushing the covers off.
“Fuck,” he says, grabbing me by my wrist, dragging me out of bed.
I stumble behind him as he enters Paige’s room. Then he’s walking back out, carrying his niece in his arms. Thank God. Thank God she’s okay. I run ahead down the smoke-filled stairs to make sure nothing blocks their path.
There’s a fire extinguisher in the pantry, my mind supplies. It’s a small thing, no match for this blaze. Assuming I could even find the fire to douse. So far the only thing I’ve seen is smoke. Heat seeps under my skin and behind my eyes. It radiates from the beams of the house, as if it’s already on fire and I just can’t see the flames.
Smoke invades my throat, and I cough—which only draws in more smoke to my lungs. It burns. Something falls in front of me—a piece of the house, about a yard of wood, still on fire. I stagger and glance behind me.
Beau has his hand on the back of Paige’s head, keeping her face turned toward him.
I lead them around the obstacle and reach for the front door. A shriek of pain escapes me, unable to be contained as the heat from the metal knob sears my palm. I use the hem of my shirt to shield myself and try again. It still burns, but I force it open for Paige’s sake.
The door finally slams open, and I stumble out onto the wet grass, panting, coughing. Mr. Rochester sets Paige down a few yards away and then comes back to haul me farther from the house. I turn back, and from this angle, I can see where the fire started. Somewhere high. The attic, most likely. The flames soar to the sky even as the bottom crumbles under the weight. It feels like there’s still fire in my lungs, fighting to get out. I can’t stop coughing. Beau coughs too. Paige looks like she’s in shock, her eyes wide, tears falling down her small cheeks.
Suddenly she lets out a scream. “Kitten!”
“Oh God.” I glance back at the second floor, which is dark, the window clouded with smoke. Is the kitten still inside? I didn’t see her. Then again it was so crazy, so fast, so scary. What if she was curled up in a corner, afraid, unable to meow because of the smoke?
I’m standing before I even fully form the thought, already heading back inside.
Strong arms haul me back. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Beau says.
I look back at him, unable to shake free. Moments pass in strange measures of time. They jump over minutes and make seconds last forever. I can feel the press of his thumb inside my elbow. I can hear his breath sawing in and out of his body, rough from the smoke. It takes only moments for me to consider—he needs to stay alive for Paige’s sake. I’m the only one here without commitments, without family. I’m the only one who wouldn’t be missed if I died in that house. It would be a sad thought on another day, but now it’s galvanizing. This is my purpose.
“You have to let me go,” I say, and it’s so inadequate as an explanation, but pain flares in his eyes, as if he understands everything I’m trying to say.
He’s rough as he shoves me next to Paige on the ground. “Wait with her.”
“Beau,” I shout, but he’s already halfway there.
“Do your fucking job.”
It doesn’t matter if I want to argue with him more. By the time I stand up in the mud he’s inside the house. It groans and quivers, the flames eating at the structural integrity.
“Come on,” I say to Paige, breathless with fear. “Let’s go back.”
She fights me. “We have to save Kitten.”
“Uncle Beau is going to save her,” I say, swallowing hard. It feels like swallowing knives. I don’t know whether he will be able to or not, but there will be more than enough time for crying later if it turns out he can’t. “Come on, we have to move back.”