She doesn’t get to finish the sentence when her thighs tighten around my shoulders and her whole body tenses, legs trembling, back bowing, her body arching out of the water—and I feel the wave crash through her before I hear it. That sound she makes?That shattered, beautiful cry as she falls? Yeah, I’ll be chasing it until the day I die.
I stay with her through it—gentler now, tongue softer, lips pressing reverent kisses along her thighs as she floats back down from the high.
When I finally rise from the water, she’s still panting, still stunned, her limbs loose and barely able to hold onto me. I drop my lips to her mouth—slow and deep and a little messy, letting her taste exactly what she gave me.
Her moan into my mouth sends my dick twitching in my jeans
And that sound? That wrecked, satisfied sound?
It ruins me. Wrecks me completely.
Because this isn’t just about sex. It never is.
It’s about showing her what it means to be worshipped. To beseen.
And right here, in this river that once carried all my guilt—I’m not drowning anymore.
I’m alive. Because of her.
I nearly lose it right here.
Her hands slide down to my waistband of my soaked jeans, tugging at my belt, but a voice cuts through the trees.
“Grant?”
Mia freezes. Her eyes go wide. I spin toward the bank, heart slamming into my throat.
Ryan.
He’s walking toward the river, I just about make him out in the distance, a rope slung over his shoulder, clearly searching.
“Grant, you down here?” he shouts again.
I haul Mia close, and we scramble for the river bank, water flying as she heads for her clothes.
I’m still catching my damn breath, heart thundering and blood refusing to redistribute where it belongs.
My jeans cling to me like a second skin, soaked through, heavy, andcompletely unhelpfulgiven the rock-hard situation still going on below my belt. Jesus. I look like I’ve just won a wet-jeans contest and smuggled the trophy in my fly.
I shift, subtly trying to adjust myself so I don’t look like a denim-wrapped sundial at full noon. But jeans? Wet? No mercy. I might as well be pitching a tent with a neon sign.
“GRANT!” Ryan’s voice rings out, somewhere up the trail, too damn close for my liking.
Mia freezes mid-strap as I fling my wet shirt from my back pocket and wrestle it over my head. I blink at her like a deer caught doing something unholy—which I was—and mouth a silentshitas I try to stand casual. There is no casual. My dick is trying to play peekaboo with the damn horizon and my shirt is clinging to my chest, making zero effort to provide cover.
“Yeah, Coming!” I call back, voice higher than normal—then wince at my word choice. Great. Real subtle.
Mia bites her lip, shoulders shaking. “You sure are,” she whispers, entirely unhelpful.
I shoot her a look, but even I can’t keep the grin off my face.
She nods, swipes a hand over her still-damp dress, and gestures for me to lead the way. “Let’s go, trophy boy.”
Ryan rounds the bend, sees me standing like I just lost a bar fight with a fire hydrant, and halts. His gaze drops. Lingers.Tilts his head.
He blinks once. Then grins.
“Well,” he drawls, “either you were attacked by a very enthusiastic trout… or I just interrupted something that would make a priest blush.”
