Page 149 of The Next Lie

I pull back and thrust again.

Her sound is muffled against my palm.

“Good,” I say near her ear. “That’s it.”

She shudders.

I set a punishing rhythm, one hand still in her hair, the other locked over her mouth and jaw. The bench bites into the front of her thighs. Her back bows. Her hips meet mine in small, desperate movements that undo any fantasy I have ever had of being reasonable with her.

She reaches back once, nails scraping my hip.

I catch her wrist and pin it to the small of her back.

“Hands where I put them.”

She trembles. Then she obeys, palm returning to the tree with visible effort. Her obedience sparks through me.

So does the fact that it is chosen.

I release her mouth and slide my hand to her throat, holding lightly enough for breath, firmly enough for weight. Her head tips back against my shoulder.

“You asked if I had intentions,” I say.

Her laugh is ruined by the next thrust. “I regret asking.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” she pants. “I don’t.”

I kiss the side of her face, rough and open-mouthed, while my hand drops between her legs. She jolts when I touch her clit, and I feel how close she is, how hard she is fighting it.

Still stubborn, even bent over a bench with me inside her.

“Let go.”

Her fingers claw at the bark. “Bossy.”

“And you’re taking every bossy inch so fucking good. Such a good girl, my little wolf.”

She makes a furious sound. I tighten my grip in her hair and drive into her harder.

She comes with her face turned toward the oak, teeth sunk into her lower lip to keep from screaming. Her body locks down around me in tight, brutal waves, and that pulls me over with her. I bury myself deep, grip her hips hard enough that I know I’ll see my handprints there later, and come with my forehead against the back of her shoulder.

For several seconds, neither of us moves.

The fountain runs behind us.

A bird calls from somewhere overhead.

Reva’s breathing is ragged beneath me, and my own is not much better.

I ease my hand from her hair first, smoothing over the place I pulled. Then I draw out of her carefully and turn her in my arms before her knees decide to make a scene. She leans into me despite herself, bare legs unsteady, cheek against my chest.

I hold her, my arms around her in the shade of the old oak while the house waits beyond the hedges.

After a moment, she says, “Pretty sure your intentions need supervision.”

I look down at her. Her mouth is trying not to smile.