Page 84 of Knot Her Beta

My hands slide up to her hips, and I draw her forward. Her control cracks, and her hips roll into my tongue in short, hungry thrusts, her moans echoing off the thin walls of the trailer.

I pull back, leaving her gasping.

Her hips follow me, seeking, and she releases a frustrated growl. “Leif.”

I stand, and Emily reaches for my belt before I can. Her fingers work the buckle open, and then she shoves my jeans down my hips, and her hand wraps around me.

An involuntary whine escapes me as she strokes me, her palm rough on my sensitive shaft. Leaning forward, I claim her lips in another kiss, and her mouth opens beneath mine, our tongues tangling together.

Her boots dig into the trailer floor, thighs locked together by her pants and underwear. I pin her to the desk, the metal groaning beneath us, and angle myself between her closed legs. My hand guides me to her slick folds, the heat of her drawing me in despite the shallow angle.

Her forehead drops to mine, our breath tangled in the sliver of space between us as her body clenches around me. She shifts her hips in silent demand, and I slide between her thighs, the head of my dick popping in and out of her swollen folds. The trailer groans with each motion, the sound lost beneath the rasp of our breathing. Her nails score my back through my shirt, the scent of crushed clover and flannel rising between us.

I adjust my angle, aiming for her sweet spot, and her breath hitches.

“There?” I rasp out, hitting it again.

She answers by tightening around me, her body gripping mine in a way that borders on pain, and I drive in harder, the tightness amplifying every thrust. Her hand fists in my shirt, and her teeth sink into my shoulder, muffling a cry. The burst of pain sends me over the edge, and I spill inside her with a broken sound.

Shudders still wrack my body as I pull out before she can lock me, then slide my hand between us to find her clit, drawing out her own release.

I kiss her cheek, her temple, the corner of her jaw, each lighter than the last, until she laughs. “That was worth missing lunch.”

“What are you talking about?” I nuzzle her throat. “I feasted.”

Her bark of laughter echoes around the trailer. “We should probably dress before someone pops in with a supply order.”

“Probably.”

With reluctance, I step back, and we pull our clothes back into order, laughter mixed into the straightening. I try to help with her bra clasp, my fingers fumbling with the hooks, and she bats my hands away.

“I’ve been doing this since I was twelve. I’ve got it.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

She snorts. “Your definition of helpful involves a lot more groping than the dictionary suggests, Professor.”

But she relents, dropping her hands, and I fasten the clasp between her breasts. Her work shirt comes next, buttoned crooked the first time, then straightened with a grumble from her and a chuckle from me. As she tucks it into her pants, I hike my pants back up, zipping them with less grace than she managed.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Her brow quirks. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“No, I mean thank you for giving me a second chance.” I run my hands through my hair to straighten it as best I can without a brush. “After the fight, I convinced myself I’d ruined it, and the more time that passed, the more afraid I became that I wouldn’t be able to fix us.”

Emily pauses in the process of relacing one boot. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I hurt you.”

“Yeah, but you were doing the best you could based on your history.” She finishes lacing the boot, double-knotting it with a tug. “I’m glad you didn’t let fear stop you from continuing to try.”

I reach out to take her hand and flatten it over my sternum, right over the fluttering bond reaching for her even now. “I had good reason to fight for us.”

Emily’s thumb brushes once over the spot beneath my hand, right where the flutter answers her touch. “You always did.”

The trailer falls silent around us. Outside, an engine rumbles somewhere across the site, followed by the distant metallic clang of someone unloading supplies, signaling the end of lunch, but she doesn’t step away.

I study her, memorizing the dust smudged along one cheek, the silver strands escaping her braid, and the tiny crease that appears beside her mouth whenever she tries not to smile.