Page 38 of Broken Reins (Whittier Falls #4)

He leaned in, slow and careful, his lips brushing mine before he pressed them there for real.

It was a gentle kiss at first, just the press and release of mouths testing the waters, but it built fast. He moved his hand, sliding up my thigh, and I felt every inch of him—solid, warm, and so fucking real.

I kissed him back, letting the heat spiral. His mouth tasted like the cheap whiskey from earlier, but it wasn’t unpleasant. It made me feel reckless, like maybe I could want things again without paying for it later.

His other hand came up, cupping my jaw, thumb tracing my cheek.

I parted my lips and he took that as the invitation it was, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth, and I let him in.

He was good at this. Not the rehearsed, porn-star stuff, but the slow, hungry kind that made you want to climb inside someone’s skin.

He pulled back for a second, just enough to look me in the eye. “Still okay?” he asked, breath ghosting over my face.

“Yes,” I said, maybe too fast.

He smiled, and that dimple shot through me like a live wire.

This time when he kissed me, it was deeper, hungrier. I dropped the pillow somewhere behind me and threaded my hands into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The sound vibrated through both of us, like something dangerous and alive had been let loose in the room.

He moved his mouth down my jaw, nipped the line of my neck, and I let my head fall back to give him more space. His stubble scraped my skin in the best possible way, and I shivered, feeling every inch of me go tight and electric.

He slid his hand under my shirt, palm flat against my belly. He stopped there, waiting.

I nodded, or maybe just arched into his hand, but he got the message. He slipped his fingers higher, tracing the line of my ribs, then the edge of my bra. He didn’t rush, didn’t paw or grab. He just explored, learning me with slow, steady pressure.

His mouth followed his hands—down my neck, along my collarbone, then lower, to where my shirt met my skin. He looked up at me, and when I didn’t say stop, he lifted the shirt up and over my head, careful not to yank my hair.

I sat there in my oldest, ugliest bra, the one with the stretched-out straps and the tiny bow I always hated. Ford didn’t even blink. He just kissed the top of my breasts, then unclipped the bra with one hand—because of course he did—and eased it away.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and the way he said it made me believe it for the first time in years.

He kissed me again, softer now, as if he was savoring it. He circled my nipple with his tongue, then sucked it into his mouth, and I gasped, the noise coming out raw and hungry. His hand drifted lower, ghosting over the waistband of my leggings.

He waited, like he wanted a green light.

I nodded, barely able to breathe, let alone speak.

He slid his hand down, fingers curving over the heat at the center of me. Even through the fabric, it was enough to make me whimper. He smiled against my skin, then knelt in front of the couch, tugging my leggings down in slow, steady pulls.

He paused at my thighs, eyes searching my face for permission. I nodded again, and he finished, stripping the leggings and my underwear in one practiced motion.

I was bare, the cold air prickling my skin, but his hands were warm, rough, steady.

He knelt there, between my knees, and for a second, just looked at me, eyes dark and hungry. “Can I kiss you here?” he asked, and I melted.

“Please,” I said, the word coming out shaky.

He grinned, then lowered his mouth to the inside of my thigh. He kissed his way up, taking his time, hands spreading my knees apart so he could see everything. When his tongue finally touched me, I nearly lost it.

He started slow, just tasting, mapping me with lips and tongue. He flicked over my clit, then circled it, never the same twice. He used his hands to hold my thighs open, but not hard—just enough to keep me grounded.

I gripped the back of his head, fingers twisting in his hair. When he looked up, eyes bright blue and wild, I almost came just from that. He watched my face the whole time, reading every twitch, every sound. He wasn’t showing off. He was learning what I liked, what made me crazy.

He worked me, slow then fast, tongue and lips and even a finger or two, until I was shaking.

I could feel the orgasm building, hot and huge and impossible to ignore.

When it hit, I arched against the couch, crying out, hips bucking.

He didn’t let up, just kept going until I was a puddle of sweat and sensation, spent and limp and so, so happy.

He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned up at me.

I couldn’t help it—I started laughing. Not because it was funny, but because it felt so good to just let go.

Ford sat up, climbing back onto the couch beside me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head, his breath coming fast and hard.

I caught my breath, then turned to him, still giggling. “I want to ride you,” I said, and the words surprised me with how bold they sounded.

He blinked, startled, then grinned wider. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Right here. Right now.”

He didn’t wait. He stripped his shirt off, then shimmied out of his jeans, boxers going with them. He was already hard, and it made me feel powerful—like maybe, for once, I could take what I wanted.

I climbed onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. I grabbed his cock, guiding him to where I was still slick and ready. He held my waist, but didn’t move, waiting for me to set the pace.

I slid down, slow at first, feeling him stretch me in the best possible way. We both moaned, the sound echoing in the tiny apartment. I started to rock, gentle at first, then faster, chasing the rhythm that felt right.

Ford’s hands roamed my back, my ass, my thighs. He kissed me, open-mouthed and hungry, biting my lip just hard enough to make me gasp.

The couch creaked beneath us, the old springs protesting every move. Sweat prickled at my skin. Ford smelled like cedar and clean sweat, and I couldn’t get enough of it. My heartbeat hammered in my ears.

He let me set the pace, never taking over, just meeting me every time I slammed down onto him. The power, the control, was electric. I rolled my hips, finding the spot that made us both lose our breath.

He started to lose control, thrusting up in time with me, his fingers digging into my hips, bruising but in a way that made me feel alive, cherished.

“I’m gonna—” he started, but I cut him off with a kiss.

“Do it,” I whispered. “Come inside me.”

His whole body went tense. He shuddered, groaning low in his chest, and I followed a second later, my own orgasm rolling over me like a wave.

I collapsed against his chest, both of us panting and sticky and spent.

We stayed like that, tangled together on the wrecked old couch, the world outside fading to nothing.

After a minute, he ran his hand up my back, slow and tender. “Are you okay?”

I smiled, kissed his neck. “I’ve never been better.”

He chuckled, pulling me closer. “You’re amazing,” he said, voice muffled in my hair.

I nuzzled into him, breathing him in. The scent, the feel, the taste of him—all of it was mine now. No one else’s.

For the first time in years, I wanted more.

I wanted everything.

I buried my face in his neck and held on, not afraid to take up space, not afraid to be greedy.

Ford let me, strong and steady, his arms around me like a promise.