“Too—”
“Too fucking slow,” I complained, trying to rock my hips into him, and he groaned, pressing deeper in.
“Baby, you feelso fucking good,” he breathed as his hips finally met mine.
I made a noise that I hoped expressed just how incredible he felt inside me.
And then he started to move, slow at first, then harder and faster, one hand on the outside of the leg on his shoulder, the other behind my bent knee. I felt every inch of him, every slide oflatex-encased length against muscle, every near-withdrawal and push as deep as he could get, heard every rapid breath, the soft grunting sounds of desire he made in the back of his throat, the slap of sweaty skin, and the hammering of my own pulse.
“El—” I gasped out. I was struggling to hold back the wave that threatened to overwhelm me.
He let out a long, deep moan, driving hard enough to lift my hips off the mattress. I made a strangled noise as I lost control, my orgasm ripping through me so hard I could feel it in my toes. Elliot’s hips slammed into mine once more as the aftershocks rippled through me, and he gave a sharp cry before I felt him shudder with a low, strangled moan.
He panted, his head hanging down for a moment before he turned to press a kiss to my leg, then another. Then he half-rolled off me, landing beside me on his back, chest heaving.
Then he shifted, turning on his side to press a kiss to my upper arm, his fingers lacing with mine. “Okay?” he asked, still breathless.
I grunted, squeezing his hand.
“Yes or no, please.” His voice was soft, a little concerned.
“Fantastic,” I replied, the word a little slurred.
He kissed my shoulder again, then nuzzled the skin. “Thank you.”
I turned my head to look at him. “For?”
“Answering. That. Everything.” He smiled at me, kissed my shoulder again, then untangled our fingers to go and get a washcloth to help me clean up.
Lyingwith my cheek on Elliot’s chest, his right arm around me, his fingers toying with my hair, I traced over the feathers of thelong-legged bird in flight at the top of his bicep. “Will you tell me about them?” I asked. Elliot’s hazel eyes watched the path of my fingers.
“It’s a Sandhill crane,” he said softly. “Because, well, Crane.”
“For your family?” I asked.
“Mmhmm.” He was silent for a moment, still watching me run my fingers over his tattoos. “It’s my mother’s family name,” he said. “Dad took her name when they got married because they wanted to be part of Mom’s nation. Dad was never that active in the Ho Chunk, and being Mamaceqtaw was important to Mom.” He shrugged, the motion shifting the muscles under his painted skin.
My fingers made their way into the branches of a triple-trunked birch tree, not unlike those in his back yard.
“That’s for Mom,” he murmured. “She loved those trees—she used to sit under them, reading or weaving or just sitting. So that one’s for her.” The leaves on the tree were golden in hue, the rest un-inked in color, just black lines on his copper skin. Around it, wound among the roots and spreading up in viney tendrils, were roses—the lavender-and-gold blooms I’d been drawn to the first time I walked up to his house.
“And these?” I asked him, my finger following the curve of a thorned tendril.
“Dad,” came the soft answer. “The Distant Drums were always his favorites.” These were newer than the tree, the lines sharper, the colors more vibrant. I heard Elliot swallow. “I just finished it at the end of July.” Right before I’d driven halfway across the country to follow my heart to his. My fingers chased the roses up to where they bloomed on either side of the crane, then back down to where they knotted into the tree’s roots.
The roots stretched down his arm, twisting and turning as they crossed his elbow, providing a frame for a crescent moon-and-star on the inside of his upper forearm. “And this one?” I asked, touching the purple edge of the star.
“Val.”
“He gets a tattoo?” I felt a little jealous, although that was ridiculous.
“He’s my brother,” Elliot replied, his tone matter-of-fact.
I nodded, accepting this. Hart had been a part of his life since they were kids. I wondered if someday I would get a tattoo on Elliot’s skin. I hoped so. Not that I would ever ask.
“So,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “Cake?”
I pushed myself up on my elbow. “You got me a cake, too?”
