Page 41 of Cowboy in Colorado

Filled to completion, and beyond.

I can’t even scream—my jaw drops open as he fills me and withdraws in a slow grind, my lungs are empty and I’m trying to scream but I can’t, I can’t, it’s just too much like this, he’s too much.

Too deep.

“Touch yourself, Brooklyn.”

My eyes flick open and meet his. “What?”

He releases one of my legs, and I hold it there because this feels too freaking amazing to ever stop, ever change. I curl back on myself, of my own volition, holding the position and welcoming him, balancing on my upper spine as he slides in and slicks out, entering me until his sex meets mine in a wet squelch followed by a stuttering withdrawal.

He touches two fingertips to my clitoris, and my gasp is raw and ragged, I’m so sensitive that light, simple touch makes me spasm involuntarily. He takes my hand in his and guides my fingers to my sex. “Touch yourself.”

I obey without question, a first in my life in just about any situation with anyone, men especially.

My middle finger presses against the tight, tender little nub of nerves, and I whimper helplessly—immediately, I feel the orgasm rising inside me, a climax so tumultuous verging on the horizon that I’m a little scared of it. I’m scared of a lot of things where Will Auden is concerned, but right now, the orgasm I feel budding inside me is the most pressing concern.

Will moves slowly, rhythmically, and my finger moves faster and faster, yet his thrusts remain the same. I’m driven to writhing, gasping, my finger flying as I seek the climax, chasing it relentlessly, wanting it as much as I’m scared of how hard it’s going to rip through me. Will grunts, a low growl, letting me keep my legs thrown up over my head and cupping and clutching and caressing my breasts as they shake with our joining. He thumbs my nipples and tweaks them, clutches the quivering globe in strong rough fingers as he drives into me.

Faster now.

“Oh god, Will—” I whisper this, hating myself for sounding so needy, so desperate, but that’s what I feel and he’s making me feel it. “Will!”

He grunts, and then draws out a long low groan, head hanging, jaw clenched. “Brooklyn—Jesus.”

I watch him, watch the way his chest expands heavily, the way his abs draw in and tense, the way his brow furrows—the fierce grip of his hands around my breasts, the way his thrusts become hard and fast, become ragged and clumsy…he’s close.

He’s feeling this as powerfully as me.

Then, his fierce blue eyes rake up my heaving body, and fix on mine. And yes, he feels this.

He shifts his grip to my legs, holding on to the backs of my thighs with bruising strength, and slams into me. “What…thehell…are you doing to me, Brooklyn?” He’s shaking all over, and his thrusts are slow and shaky—he’s holding back with every last ounce of strength he has, trying to hold out.

“I—I don’t fucking know,” I answer in a raw whisper, my fingers flying crazily now, my orgasm churning inside me with pent-up volcanic pressure. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

“I’ve—” He pauses, crashing into me again, slow and hard and rough. “It’s never—” His eyes close, jaw clacking shut with a loud snap.

Fuck it—I’ll say what he can’t. “It’s never been like this before.

“No,” he admits. “Never.”

“I don’t know what it is, either.”

He’s shaking, his thrusts ragged and trembly, every muscle taut and hard, straining. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his cheek. I can’t hold back the climax, and it’s never even crossed my mind to try before—usually, it’s more a matter of hoping I can come soon enough after my partner that he’s still hard, and if I do get there first, I let myself go because I know he’ll follow pretty quick.

This, with Will—it’s different. He’s not just a random sexual partner. This happened outside of my control—it happened, and I had no choice but let it, to go with it. It was as if we reached a point where we justhadto have sex together, and now we’re mixed up in something beyond either of our control.

He feels the same way; I can tell by the way he’s finding it harder and harder to hold my gaze. As if he’s afraid to see any more of me like this, so raw and naked and vulnerable—and by naked, I don’t mean nude, unclothed, I mean that my very soul is naked, somehow. Bared to him. And despite how hard he is, how rough and masculine and primal and dominant, he’s as exposed to me as I am to him.

He hates this vulnerability as much as I do. It’s as foreign and uncomfortable for him as it is for me.

I wonder fleetingly what it would be like to get him on his back, to tame him enough that he’d let me ride him like the wild stallion he is.

I shiver at the idea.

“What?” he demands.

I grin, a sly secret smile. “Nothing.”