Page 25 of Snowbound

“Go on, then,” he murmurs. “Time for you to break out of this. Let’s see you.”

He bends, closing his mouth around my nipple, licking the hard peak. My hips buck. My mouth falls open again, another sob breaking free as I come—hard.

So fucking hard I can’t breathe.

I’m shaking, gasping, split open and undone. He holds me through it, murmuring praise against my cheek.

“That’s it, beautiful. That’s my good girl. All fucking mine.”

I’m still trembling when he lifts me again, effortlessly, like I weigh nothing. I feel like I’m flying.

My sweats are halfway down, tangled around my thighs. My panties are soaked.

I should feel exposed, but with Owen? I feel owned.

It’s the history. The ache. The years we spent ripped apart. The depth of what we were to each other before anyone tried to ruin it.

I didn’t know he wanted me like this. I thought it was just in my head, and maybe I was just imagining that Owen felt it too.

I didn’t know his father hurt him like my mother hurt me. They fucking deserve each other.

Then Owen looks at me and growls, “God. Look at you. Wrecked. And I haven’t even started.”

He throws the little blanket off the couch with one hand and lays me flat again, pinning my arms above my head in one brutal, commanding motion.

My heart kicks up, panic and hunger braided tight together.

He leans down and licks a bead of sweat from my throat. My hips arch again, still caught in the aftermath.

When he bites down on my collarbone, it’s hard enough to bruise.

“Think you could write now?” he murmurs.

“If my hands could move,” I whisper back, earning a deep chuckle. I feel that chuckle between my thighs.

“You're going to remember this,” he rasps in my ear. “Every time you sit down to write. Every time you close your legs at night and wonder why they ache—this…”

His hands slide between my thighs again, two fingers slipping back inside, teasing. “This is why.”

I arch off the couch, moaning. Begging.

“Owen—”

He’s not gentle now, not even close.

His fingers pump in and out, stroking that exact spot that makes me see stars, circling just right.

Fuck.

“Yes, Owen—please—Jesus—God?—”

“You want to come again already?” His voice is low, mocking, hungry. “You that fucking needy? Or just that honest?”

Finally, I choke on a sob and nod.

“Yes.”

He grins. It’s slow and dark.