Page 109 of Ransom
"Winston."
"Did you, though?"
I curled my fingers. Winston's spine bent under me, and the rest of the sentence broke into a moan. His hips pushed back into my hand without him meaning them to. I didn't move and let him work himself down onto my fingers, watching the long muscle along his back move in the lamplight. The base of his neck was slick. My breath had gone heavier than I wanted it to,and my cock was hard enough that holding off was an act of will I was running out of.
"Talkative tonight, Ranger."
"Always am." His voice came out wrecked. "You know that about me."
"I know it."
"So you did go." He turned his face into the pillow and pulled in enough air to keep going. "Rafe's truck was gone two Tuesdays back. You took it because yours was gettin' the brakes done. Sierra made you a sandwich for the drive. I came in for coffee and he gave me the look."
"What look?"
"The look that says don't ask."
"And you didn't."
"Asked Sierra. He told me to mind my own business and pour my own coffee." He pushed back against my hand and earned nothing for it because I held still. "Felt like a man bein' managed, Ransom. What were you doin' in T or C, darlin'?"
I pulled my fingers out of him. He hissed through his teeth, the sound caught in his throat. I reached for the bottle on the nightstand, poured more lube onto my palm, and went back to him without saying anything. He was loose and wet, his wrists still pinned where I'd put them. He wasn't fighting me on any of it. He was just running his mouth.
I pushed my knees between his and spread him wider. His thighs went where I put them. I lined myself up against him and held there, the head of my cock just pressed to the heat of him. I did not move.
"Ransom."
"Mm."
"You gonna make me wait, or are you gonna fuck me?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"Thinkin'."
"About whether you've earned it."
He laughed into the pillow. His fist twisted under mine on the pillow. "Darlin'," he said, "I have absolutely earned it."
I pressed in.
I'd meant to draw it out, but I sank into him deep enough and held there, my chest against his back, my mouth at the place where his neck met his shoulder, my heartbeat loud against the soft skin under his ear.
His wrists twitched in my grip.
I let them go. He brought his hands down to the pillow under his face, turned his head sideways so I could see his profile, his cheek pressed flat, his mouth open, his eyes half closed. He was watching me sideways with that specific Winston expression, half smartass, half devotion. The lamplight caught the chapped place on his lower lip. I leaned down and bit it.
He gasped, and I sat back enough to see his face. I pulled out of him an inch, eased back in even more deliberately than the first time, and his eyes rolled.
"There you are," he said.
"Quiet."
"Make me."
I cupped my hand under his jaw and turned his face back into the pillow, palm along the line of his throat, fingers loose. He whimpered once, low, and went pliant under me. I held him there and started moving for real.
I didn't go fast. I went deep, steady, made him take it like I'd taught him, until he had nowhere to hide from any of it. The casita had gone quiet around us except for the slap of skin, his breathing, the rain on the roof that had started up an hour ago.
