Her hips rolling back to meet each one.
I shift my palm to her other breast and twist her nipple there, giving her that little bite of pain.
She moans and arches her neck, begging for what she needs. I slide my hand up around it, tightening and angling her head until her ear is at my lips, stilling my hips to emphasize my point now that I have her where I want her.
“I fucking love you, Willow.” Thrust. “You’re a McBride.” Thrust. “You’re mine.” Thrust. “No one”—thrust—“and nothing”—thrust—“will ever get between us again.”
I keep pumping into her, keeping it slow, dragging out the pleasure for both of us as long as possible—before we both snap and lose control.
She whimpers against my hand and swallows hard, the motion rippling under my palm, enough to make my cock ache deep inside her. Her pussy clamps down on me, and her body vibrates harder, trembling so badly that I know she’s close.
So damn close.
“I know how much you want to come on my cock, don’t you?”
She nods as I roll my hips and thrust deep again, then still.
“Then do it for me, Honeybee.”
I unleash that restraint I’ve been clinging to.
Driving into her as hard as I can in the position we’re in.
Planting my foot into the mattress for leverage and to give her a different angle.
One that guarantees I hit the spot that made her squirt down my throat in the kitchen.
That’s what I want.
That kind of release for her.
One that might be able to wash away whatever was weighing on her when she climbed into this bed with me tonight.
With one more flex of my palm on her throat and drive of my hips, her head arches more against my grip, and she comes.
I slide my hand up over her mouth to stifle her cry as her pussy pulses along my cock, clasping and clutching, rippling the same way her throat does.
It drags my own release free and I still, coming deep inside her in mind-bending spurts of pleasure that spread to every inch of my body.
A release of more than just sexual need.
I’m letting go of everything.
My anger at myself.
My anger at the world.
Even my anger at the time we lost.
Because I have everything I ever need right here beneath the mountain sky.
EPILOGUE
MEMORIAL DAY FESTIVAL – NINE MONTHS LATER
WILLOW
Main Street bustles with people moving in and out of the shops, stopping to look at the stands set up along the sidewalk from various local artists and vendors, enjoying all the festivities. The smell of fried foods and crisp early summer mountain air permeates every breath I take, tinged with the scent of freshly cut wood that always reminds me of Killian.
