Our eyes lock in this primal war, her aching to pull everything out of me, pressing her palms to my cheeks.
Just for a moment, to tease, I roll my hips back and hold my next thrust, counting.
By the count of five, she gives me a look of pure hell and opens her lips.
I press my finger to their pink middle.
“Not yet. Hold it for me, darling.”
Then comes the shock as I slam into her in a single hungry thrust, the familiar depths of her body opening to take me till I fit so wickedly inside her.
The sugar rush of pleasure thieves our breath away.
Too much. Too fucking much.
I’m fighting her till the bitter end, battling to hold back, to prolong this bliss.
She’s clinging to my neck as I raise us up, march across the room, and power slam her against the door with my thrusts.
I hold her there with my body, stealing the taste of my name off her lips again and again and again.
Slow.
Furious.
Diabolical, this thing.
The first time I have her as my wife, and there’ll never be a last time.
That’s the sweet reminder I need to let go, to kiss her frantically, to bury myself to the hilt and explode.
There are no words for the lightning storm arcing up my back and splitting my head.
I go rigid, pumping molten seed, filling her till she overflows with me and squeezes me for dear life as she goes off again.
I think her nails delve lines down my back—a compliment, not a complaint.
That ocean saltwater might sting when we venture out tomorrow, but believe me, I’ll be smiling at the reminder of tonight.
And I’m giving her plenty to remember, tangling my tongue with hers, fusing our lips, communing with her soul in a kiss that matches our revelry.
Fuck.
This is the first night of the rest of our lives.
For too long, I was trapped in an endless winter. This heat between us burns that cold away, until there’s only Felicity to light and warm and baptize my world.
I’ll never let her go.
Never.
And I keep her close to me all night, loving her again and again and again, returning for more till we’re slicked in sweat and can barely stand, and still...still, I crave more.
I’ll always crave this woman.
Always crave us.
There’s no one else in the universe who could fit me the way Fliss does, smiling up at me with dreams in her eyes that can rival the starscape waiting outside.
Some men are happy with their millions. Trophies and treasures are what most folks die for, but I’ve found something infinitely more valuable, more true, and far more damned fulfilling.
This mad, gigantic, and forever hungry love.
This beautiful insanity with my wife, my Felicity, forged in pain and molded in heart, always surer than any gold.
Thanks for reading No Gentle Giant!
Need more feels with Felicity and Alaska?
Step into the future of Heart's Edge and see what life looks like for the happy couple and Eli in this feel-good flash forward short story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/o9aqm1k6on
Then read on for a preview of Holt Silverton being brought to his knees by an enemies-to-lovers firestorm in No White Knight.
Preview: No White Knight
Wild Horses (Libby)
Give a girl three wishes, and I’ll tell you two of them right now.
I should’ve listened to Dad.
And I should’ve stayed away.
That’s the only thought rattling around in my head as I do a slow blink, staring around at this terrible scene covered in dust.
I can’t let anyone find this place.
I wish someone did little old me the same favor.
But there’s barely time to breathe, to walk away, to force a painful grin and just pretend I never saw it.
Thank God my arms and legs still know what to do while my brain’s turned into a rock.
Close that gate.
Lock it.
Guard it with my life.
Then I turn tail and run, taking off to swing myself back into the saddle and get out of Dodge like a pack of angry hounds are hot on my heels.
I’m alone.
No one saw me here. No one could have.
But I feel like the vacant eyes of death back there are following me anyway.
You know what? Screw wishes.
I’ve lived enough to know they don’t come true.
Holding on for dear life to my horse’s reins and leaning hard into his hoof-pounding gait, I make a new wish on the fly.
No one ever finds out what’s at the end of Nowhere Lane.
For my father’s sake.
For the farm’s sake.
And for my own.
Everybody’s got their own intuition.
Some people swear by a spidey sense. Some people’s ears burn when they get a close friend in their head, lighting up their thoughts enough to worry. Some people even claim they’ve got ESP, a sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.
Me?
I’ve just got a nose for trouble.
When it tells me something smells rotten, I listen.
That dust cloud coming down the highway toward my ranch, catching up the dry summer earth and turning it into a mini reddish-yellow storm churning my way, let me tell you...
My nose does a whole lot more than itch.
It’s on fire, ’cause I smell trouble with a capital S for Sierra.
Sure enough.
A minute later, an old Ford Taurus—clean, but its white finish yellowed to a dull shine—sweeps up the drive outside my fence. I’m in for more trouble on top of calamity.
I haven’t seen her for years, but I still instantly recognize the woman behind the wheel.
She’s my sister, after all.
And wherever Sierra Potter shows up, trouble’s soon to follow.
I fold my arms on the fence, leaning against the sun-warmed wood and watching her as she parks the car and gets out.
Sis doesn’t see me yet. It’s pretty obvious from the self-conscious way she fusses and pats at her clothes like there’s no one here to watch her.
She’s dressed like all fancy-schmancy. Of course she is.
But if she’s fancy, she’s Goodwill fancy.
I know a secondhand dress like the back of my hand. That bright-pink sheath thing doesn’t do much for her complexion or her dirty-blonde hair.
Blue-eyed blondes in eye-melting pink usually do it a bit better, but...well, she’s trying.
The thing is, I don’t trust why.
When my sister’s trying this hard, she wants something.
For a second, I bite my lip and blink longer than I should.
Hoping she’s grown up.
Hoping there’s no ulterior motive.
Hoping I’m dealing with a different woman than the one who ran off and stole my trust with her.
While I’m busy hoping my butt off, a warm, velvety nose bumps my shoulder. I turn my head just in time to get a whiff of hay breath.
Frost’s snowy dappled head nudges me with a whiny nicker. I’d ridden the Gypsy Vanner out to check the fences and dismounted long enough to leave him restless.
I smile faintly, cupping his cheek and running my fingers along the strong line of his jaw.
“I don’t like it either, big guy. Let’s go see what she wants, eh?” I murmur. “Then we’ll send her packing.”