Page 47 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

I instantly dig into the bed, aching for his touch. He studies me, how I’m clenching the quilt, how my knees squirm, how my body rises and falls with hitched breaths.

He clasps my cheek, which nearly does me in. “You’re okay with this even if I’m leaving?” he asks, concern planted in each word.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “You’re not leaving tonight, Cobalt boy.

” This might make his departure in two months even harder, but it’s just an orgasm.

It’s just fooling around. It doesn’t have to be intense and emotionally complicated.

I’m more eager to experience these moments with Ben than never feel them at all.

“Now what?” I ask and skim him, how his legs tangle into mine, how his muscles flex in hot bands, how his gaze consumes and cradles me.

He scoops me up in his arms, just to throw the quilt and sheets farther down the mattress, then he brings them over our heads. I cage a moan in my throat. My legs instinctively break apart around him, and I wrap my arms against his neck. My pulse beats faster, thumps harder.

Ben lays me flat on the mattress, then hovers over me. “We’re going to be very fucking quiet,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over mine. The threat of a touch, a kiss, intensifies every single nerve-ending in my body.

This is happening.

I want to memorize each tantalizing second.

I glance down at our pelvises, not at all lined up because I’m so much shorter than him.

That’d be an issue if his dick were slipping inside me, but he made it clear he’s not going that far tonight.

I imagine the problem would be resolved by me being on top.

My imagination becomes irrelevant as soon as he lowers more of his weight on me. The quilt tents over his back and cocoons us in darkness and warmth. A heady, drugged feeling dizzies me.

“I want to make you feel good,” he whispers into my ear.

Those words might as well be a long-forgotten ancient language. I’ve never heard them before. Never dreamed of their existence. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop my heavy breathing.

We’re in his living room.

If one of his brothers comes out here, this won’t look innocent at all. A massive blanket lump screams indecent activity.

All I can hope is that we’re quiet enough to not attract attention. Maybe we’ll also be able to hear any incoming footsteps. We’ll have time to break away and pretend we’re just sleeping. My acting skills aren’t up to par, so I’m really banking on being super silent here.

Ben isn’t making it easy.

Not as he skates a molten palm from my knee up to my thigh. Anticipation causes me to shudder just as much as his physical touch. His hands, on me. My hands, on him.

Our eyes catch every other second, escalating this new feeling I can’t make sense of yet.

My shallow inhales and exhales sound like fog horns in the silence. I find myself confining oxygen in my lungs to be quieter, not releasing breaths. Do not pass out before you have an orgasm, Harriet. The thought makes me intake small lungfuls of air.

Ben hooks a thumb in my black Thursday panties and drags them down my thighs, my legs, my ankles—off me entirely. I quake against him as his knuckles brush against my skin, and I let my hands drop to his broad shoulders. Hanging on.

I don’t see where he discarded my panties, but his hand returns to the soft flesh of my thigh. Our eyes lock again, and it steals all my thoughts.

My mouth opens. I can’t shut it. My esophagus tries to tighten closed. Why is he looking at me like that? Am I looking at him the same way too? It’s the depth. Like he’s reaching into me, even though we’re not two pieces of metal welded together.

We’re two separate entities. Aren’t we?

He stretches my legs open even wider, and an ache spirals through me. Don’t make a sound. Don’t even breathe. Then his fingers slip against my wet heat. My body nearly spasms at the sensitivity. The blanket slips off our heads. Fuck.

I side-eye the darkened living room, nervous about his brothers appearing.

He turns my chin, so I look back at him. When Ben becomes my sole focus, the anxieties fade, and I sink into how he’s lighting my body on fire, how my lungs feel fuller and simultaneously oxygen deprived.

He rubs my clit in slow strokes, and I grind against his hand on impulse. His muscles contract, and our eyes slam together again. Holy. Fuck.

I almost cry out.

He immediately covers my mouth with a strong palm.

He grunts out a sexy, hoarse breath into a deeper, “ Harriet… . fuck .” His forehead lowers toward mine, and I reach down and grab his wrist, feeling how he’s between my legs. This is really happening.

His lips brush against my ear. “Wet…you…” His words stick to his throat like they’re coated in thick honey. My head is spinning. Dizzying. Me.

Then he slips his finger inside my pussy. Oh my God. The fullness curls my toes, even more when he begins pumping. He starts toying with my clit at the same time, and I think, this is where I’ll lose it. But it’s not what’s setting me off the most.

It’s his eyes.

This exhuming look that I’m more positive we’re sharing. He’s mining my heart, and I’m chiseling out his. Uncontrollable sentiments surge in me, overwhelming every part of my mind.

I instinctually arch my hips into the movement of his hand—the pull-out couch lets out a sudden sharp squeak. Oh fuck, fuck.

We both freeze like we’ve been caught under a giant searchlight. Our heavy, half-captured breaths are the only thing I hear in the quiet. Ben listens and scans the living room. When he glances back at me, his self-assurance tries to ease my panic.

Still, we silently wait a minute for footsteps. I strain my ears. Each second aches with his finger motionless inside me. It’s the longest, hottest minute of my life.

My muscles pulse around his finger in want, and his brows arch at me.

He can feel that. He can FEEL that?! I’m beet-red.

Hot all over. I just want more. Deeper. But we’re determined to not fuck this up, to not end this in a horrible way.

I won’t be able to construct a halfway decent lie if Charlie or Beckett come out here.

I’ll have to confess to his older brothers that Ben’s finger is inside me.

And then I’ll have to go pick out a headstone for my grave.

Risks are high. Hooking up in the Cobalt brothers’ living room. I never thought I’d do it, okay, but there are no signs of regret or remorse. I’m all-in on this dangerous path with Ben.

The minute subsides in slow slipping seconds, then he fits another finger in me. Fuckfuckfuck. “Fuck,” I rasp out loud, hopefully soft enough. I writhe beneath him, not even sure how many times I’ve cursed into the air.

I look down beneath the sheets. To his hand cupped against my pussy. When my eyes meet his, we exchange intimate awareness that he has two fingers inside me now.

His lips skim my ear. “G-spot.” He’s not asking. He’s telling me. One single word has cranked up my arousal to smoldering degrees.

I try to whisper back, but all I think is, no one has ever found… Oh, what the… fuck . I shake against him. Full-body vibrations. His smile is even sexier with his pleasure. And I feel like he’s getting off on this just as much as me.

Ben skillfully pumps his fingers in an expert tempo, mimicking thrusts. It feels like sex. Like I’m being fucked, except I don’t know if I’d call it that. A fucking. Because as he clasps my face with one hand and pulses inside me with the other, our eyes haven’t broken apart.

Our aching breaths become in sync again.

Our bodies cake with sweat.

My gaze burns, and I watch his eyes redden as we’re pulled under a powerful riptide together. He’s nodding to me, as if to tell me it’s okay. That I can give into this feeling with him. Water wells in my eyes, spilling into the creases. What the fuck, Harriet?

I’ve never experienced this. What is… this ?

He’s choked on a gruff, deep noise, and I claw at his arms, hoping he never stops. Hoping this never has a true end.

I lose myself to the friction, the scorching affection, Ben .

A high-pitched moan tears through me—he catches the sound with his hand quickly. But we don’t even pause like before. I don’t think either of us can.

He smothers my whimpers against his large palm.

His nose flares as he grits down to detain his own sounds.

They release like masculine, grunting breaths.

I think he wants to tell me something a couple times, but all he gets out are one or two indistinguishable words.

It’s as if communicating has slipped away from us under these heightened feelings.

I come so suddenly.

My whole body arches up into his chest as the orgasm ripples through me. His palm tightens over my lips to shelter as many noises as he can. Tendons strain in his neck as he controls himself from coming. To be honest, I wouldn’t even be able to hear footsteps. Not over the ringing pulse in my ears.

It takes seemingly minutes to gather oxygen in my lungs. He peels his hand off my mouth, then slips his fingers out of me.

I’m propped on my elbows, unable to fully catch my breath.

He’s on his knees, the blanket falling a little bit. I watch him palm his hard length over his sweats, but he’s scrutinizing me, maybe to make sure I’m okay.

I’m scared. Because… “What…what was that?” I almost croak out, then wipe the residual wet streaks from the corners of my eyes.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and he shakes his head.

“Is this how intense it always is with you?” I whisper. “Do I need a defibrillator on standby?”

He cracks a smile that fades too fast. “It’s not usually…

that’s a first for me, Fisher.” He seems afraid too.

This was just supposed to be a quickie. A friend helping a friend out.

He was doing me a solid. Granting me a long-lost orgasm.

Instead, he served a side dish of emotional turmoil, and I must be a masochist because I don’t think I want to send it back.