Page 8 of Claim Me, Colt
I’m close—so close—and he knows it.
He leans in, brushing his lips against my ear. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to feel you fall apart.”
And I do.
I shatter around his fingers, crying out his name, trembling so hard I have to clutch the sheets to keep from floating off the bed.
Before I can catch my breath, he’s standing, stripping off his shirt, then his jeans, revealing a body built from labor and survival—scarred, powerful,fucking perfect. My eyes widen as I take him in, thick and hard and already leaking.
I reach for him, and he lets me wrap my hand around his cock, stroking slowly while he watches with hungry eyes.
“Condom?” I ask, breath still shaky.
“In the drawer,” he says, and I’m already reaching for it.
He rolls it on with shaking hands, then kneels over me again, kissing me softer this time. Slower. Like we have all night and the world outside has stopped turning.
And then he presses into me.
I gasp at the stretch, the perfect fullness of him. He groans low in his throat, like the feel of me around him is almost too much.
He starts to move—long, slow thrusts that build and build until I’m panting, clawing at his back, begging him not to stop.
“Harder,” I beg.
“Yeah?” His voice is wrecked. “You can take it?”
“Yes.”
He gives it to me. Hard and deep and perfect, each stroke driving me closer to the edge again. His hand finds my clit, and when he presses, I break all over again—louder this time, raw and shameless andfree.
He follows a second later with a curse and a growl, burying himself deep one last time as he comes with a shudder that rocks the whole bed.
When it’s over, he doesn’t move away. He stays inside me, forehead resting against mine, both of us gasping for air.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He rolls onto his side, pulling me with him, and holding me tight. “No, sweetheart. Thank you.”
Chapter 5
Simone
Iwakeupinhis bed, and for a moment, I can't remember where I am.
The mattress beneath me is firm but comfortable, nothing like the designer memory foam in my D.C. apartment. There's no traffic outside, no early morning news briefings blaring from the television in the next room.
Just silence.
And warmth.
Colt's flannel shirt is still wrapped around me like a cocoon, soft cotton that carries his scent. I tug it closer and breathe deeply.
When was the last time I woke up without immediately reaching for my phone to check messages? Without a color-coded calendar telling me exactly where I needed to be and who I needed to smile for?
When was the last time I felt thisat peace?
I sit up slowly, half expecting the familiar anxiety to come rushing back—the panic about the engagement party, the shame about running away, the dread about facing my father's disappointment.
