Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

AURORA

He had to mention choking me that night at the bonfire.

Does he know how hard it is to find a guy who knows how to give a proper hand necklace?

Most of the Wall Street types I hooked up with never initiated anything a shade beyond Tahitian Vanilla. Not even Stracciatella, and definitely not anything close to Rocky Road, where I’d like to think I hang out on that scale.

And if I asked for it? They’d either grip my neck lightly, clammy hands too scared to do more than a feather touch, or they’d try to choke me out right then and there, cut off my air flow in a way that’s more serial killer than sexy-kinky and I’d have to break out a self-defense maneuver I learned in kickboxing to even have the wherewithal to get the safe word out. And by then, the evening—and my distant orgasm—were always ruined.

How hard is it to put a firm hand around the throat, possessive, claiming, and still respectful while you dick a girl down good and give her what she needs?

Or maybe he’s what I need, and the taste I developed from a young age was one no one else could ever quench?

Those hands of his have clouded my vision more than should be allowed ever since that reminder. The way they used to hold me just right, tight enough without making me fear for my life. How his thick fingers felt pushing into me, stretching me out as he ate me out, prepping me for more.

I’ve had those hands on—in—just about every inch of me.

Most recently, on my mind, damn near constantly.

And now those hands are in my line of vision, for the next hour or so.

Where I can imagine them back on my throat, my neck, my breasts, further down.

I swallow heavily, watching as they grip the handlebars, fingers clenching, tendons flexing as he accelerates, shifting gears, steering us through the wooded trail with expert skill that’s sexier than it should be. The way he works the infinite buttons and switches on this thing with a dexterity that shoots a thrill through me.

I’m mesmerized by every motion he makes to control this machine—gotta be a thousand pounds with us on it—the sheer competency he demonstrates, whipping us past trees, around corners, and across treacherous ground with no hesitation, no faltering in his driving despite the unexpected turn of events and the dimming remnants of daylight.

There’s such raw, unapologetic masculinity in everything he’s doing, and it’s a complete fucking turn-on. Try as I might to ignore it, my body refuses to.

A day like this? Where we’ve both let loose, relaxed, joked , even laughed? Undoubtedly flirted, multiple times. And now his arms are caging me in, extended around either side of me, keeping me secure in my precarious, makeshift seat atop the gas tank, his body warm and solid pressed up behind mine.

My heartbeat flutters in my clit, or maybe that’s the vibration of the ATV beneath me? Final verdict: it’s both, and my core clenches in response, already starting to ready itself for him at the feel of his torso against me, his legs bracketing mine, those arms engulfing my frame.

How many kinds of fucked up does someone have to be to get turned on from this ?

I try to tell her that’s not what this is, that’s not what his body up on mine means in this case, but my kitty says our history says otherwise.

There’s not a lot of room for personal space up here, sharing this thing made for one, but he does what he can, keeping his head held out to the side of our bodies, rather than resting it near or atop my shoulder as would probably be more comfortable for him.

I appreciate the gesture, but also, why is his consideration for my comfort with this situation turning me on even more? My body is taking it as some kind of modern chivalry, the fact that he isn’t using this as an opportunity to be as all over me as he could be. And fuck me for wanting him to be all over me as a result.

There’s a burst of some sort of extra rumble through the vehicle as we change gears, probably muffled some for him by the comfier seat Wyatt is on, but with my legs straddling the front of the chassis, wedged right behind the handlebars, in front of the only seat behind me, hips and pelvis directly on top of the fuel tank, I feel it.

I close my eyes, try to fight the added sensation it’s bringing to the moment, pretend I’m not hornier than I have any right to be for a wholesome day out with a friend, like my nipples didn’t tighten at that vibration, like I’m not halfway to coming from this fucked up situation already.

And when he revs again, switching to a lower gear to take a rather rockier portion of the path—I remember feeling like a pioneer on the Oregon Trail as I navigated it on our way out this morning—I’m embarrassed to say, a moan slips out.

If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself wiggling my hips, grinding against his toy to try to get mine, like I’m not a civilized, educated woman, just a walking sack of estradiol. But even that has gotta be better than grinding against him, moving my hips and ass against anything I can find behind me to try and relieve this building need, what’s turning into a pulsing ache deep inside me. Neither of these options are part of the plan, and I am determined to stay strong here. Just because I’m in front of the most intense addiction I’ve ever had doesn’t mean I have to partake, does it? Or is being in his proximity enough, am I reminded on a visceral level of what I had and lost, and desperate to get any sliver of that back while I have the chance?

My fingers flex into their perch in front of me, nowhere to go, but seeking a stronger hold on what’s keeping me tethered to my boundaries, any sort of social propriety that separates me from a wild animal who knows no wrong in following instinct, humping his leg until I come all over it, swiveling in this seat so I can grind my pelvis overtop his until we both shatter and our pleasure takes over everything else.

The hard plastic doesn’t give underneath my nails, but my biceps strain with the motion, arms extended in front of me, and Wyatt notices, pulling his head in closer to mine, even as we continue trekking across the trail more smoothly than I’d have thought possible after riding it solo earlier.

Wyatt’s left hand leaves the grip, and he uses one finger to softly trace the bright white scar on my left forearm, shining intermittently beneath the streaks of sunlight as we weave in and out of the canopies of tree cover. I think it’s probably the most intimate touch we’ve shared since my return.

“You’ve still got that scar.” It’s not exactly a murmur, as it makes it over the roar of the engine and the crunch of the first fallen leaves we’re flying over, but it’s something close. “Hellcat.” The word sounds almost like a purr in his voice, so close to my ear that I suppress a shiver.

It brings me back to the day I got the scar, and the nickname.

We were hanging out deep in an abandoned field as horny teens are wont to do in the country, with few places to go, and little to do but one another. He’d gone to do something—take a piss, get more beer, I can’t remember at this point—and while he was gone, I was attacked. A feral cat, mama to a new litter, we later discovered, must’ve thought I was some sort of enemy predator, and she launched at me.

Can’t say I was ever a fan of wildlife, but I promise you I’ve been even less of a fan since that day.

Wyatt came running when he heard me shrieking, but I’d already fought her off, gotten all eighteen of her claws out of my arm, and flung her far enough away for me to get somewhere a bit safer before she could retaliate again. But it wasn’t before she sliced me pretty good with one of her dewclaws and left a fat gash in my forearm that was bleeding rather heavily.

He was traumatized by the incident—possibly more so than even I was—but he tried to make light of it. Said that feral cat didn’t know she was messing with a hellcat, and the nickname stuck.

Of course, once he got me back home and cleaned up, and he was reassured there was no permanent damage or stitches required, he made me feel much better, and that scar may have a couple of other memories attached to it after how the rest of that day (and night) played out.

Feeling his finger run across it now? No stopping the chills that break out up and down my spine and move their way down south. I clench my core against the desire pooling there, try to tell myself to ignore how good he feels, that I’m stronger than this, and we’re just a couple hours away from my favorite vibrator combination. I can tag team the two of them until both they, and I, are fully drained.

A dark chuckle hits my eardrum, and I give a metaphorical gulp.

He knows what he’s doing to me. What this closeness, these memories, this ride is doing to me.

I feel Wyatt’s chest move in closer to mine, encroaching on that tiny bit of personal space he’d worked so hard to save me, and then he’s pressing forward, so I’m forced to lean forward with the motion too.

The new angle puts me in even more contact with the source of all those vibrations beneath me, and my eyes roll back in my head at the feel of it, but I bite my lip to prevent any more unwanted sounds from betraying me.

He backs away slightly, letting me sit back up for just a second, then he pulses forward again, and again. The rhythm is a taunting preview, the start to a very promising buildup and potential release, and my teeth dig into my lip harder, but I’m nearly certain he hears the noise I make anyway.

“Come on, Aurora .” His voice is a tease. Just like the rest of him. “Spent the better part of my formative years learning all your tells and signs. You think I can’t tell when you’re turned on and wetter than the river?”

He drops down to a lower gear again and slows our pace but gives an extra rev to rattle my entire frame from the force of the horsepower between my legs. My thighs tighten around the thing, but it doesn’t exactly help.

“You’ve prolly soaked those hot little jeans, haven’t you?”

I shut my eyes and pray to whatever gods haven’t abandoned me after all my sins for the strength to not cross this line with him. To not put him through any more torture when it comes to me, when we both know where this will end. Again.

Or maybe I’m praying for him to keep going. Because it’s been so long since I’ve felt the kind of alive I am when I’m with him. Where fire and need courses through my bloodstream, and it defies the laws of physics the way I feel like I’ll combust if we don’t give in to the pull.

We drift to a slow crawl and his voice drops quieter with less competition to be heard.

When he speaks again, his voice is damn near a growl against the shell of my ear. “I bet you’d come if I grazed that clit right now, wouldn’t you? Just one little fingertip would probably make those legs shake and that pussy gush. I can tell you’re close, even without tasting you, without having my tongue, my fingers, or my cock inside you. I’ll never forget what it feels like to make you come, Hellcat.”

And at that, I whimper. I can’t help it.

His filthy words, his perfect brand of ownership, the way he always delivers just what I need, it’s too much for me to resist. But still, I remain wordless. My body is screaming yes , and I’m praying, for my ego’s sake, he doesn’t make my mouth echo the word. We can dissect that fucked up little piece of Aurora lore later. For now, I hope he’s listening to my silent pleas for more.

Wyatt’s teeth graze my earlobe, which is an oddly personal, sensual touch when no other part of him is directly touching me. His hands are still on the controls, and the rest of our bodies are only flush where we can’t help it, and through clothing at that.

I feel what those teeth on my skin do to me on a base, instinctual level, and I can only hope he can’t see my thighs flexing, my core clenching around the hollow vibrations, the closest thing to relief it can find. Desire burns deep inside me, stoking a fire of need in my low stomach that spreads deliciously out to every erogenous zone I possess. My breasts, my peaked nipples—practically chafing against this bra and thin shirt I wish he’d tear off me at this point—my pussy, so desperate to be filled and worked over by someone who knows what it needs, and beyond.

I feel his head hovering over my shoulder, in full view of said nipples, which would give me away even if I’d tried to deny everything he’s accusing me of.

He tsks in my ear in disapproval, or maybe a reprimand, and I nearly drop my head back with another groan.

“Still staying silent, hmm? That’s a shame. I always loved to hear you scream for me.”

I know he hears the way I suck in a breath at that, and I can feel his smirk, even if I refuse to look over and see it for myself. Let him see what he’s doing to me. The fucking mess I’m turning into, straddled in between his legs, legs held open by this ATV, no way to hide from the pleasure, already on the edge of exploding from what he’s doing to me without even touching me. The way he’s closing in on me, forcing me to lean forward, make more contact between my clit and the rumbling parts of this four-wheeler, which he’s controlling with his very talented—and sorely missed—hands.

I watch those hands for as long as I can until my eyes flutter shut as he revs the machine just once, higher than before, and another whimper sounds from my throat. Deeper than the last.

He presses his next words into my shoulder, and there’s no missing them. “Lucky for you it goes against everything I’ve always known to not give you what you need, Rory, so if you’re gonna be stubborn and not ask me for what we both know you’re dying for, that’s okay. I’ll still take care of you, Hellcat.”

And then his hands are off of the controls, letting the machine idle at a steady rumble, and one of those hands comes down on the top of my thigh, and the other on my low back. He presses me forward, forward, and I let myself give in to the sensations, how good it all feels when it’s him in control. When I’m not the one who has to be, for once. My eyes close, refusing to watch what he’s doing to me, but I feel it all twice as intensely for it.

That hand on my thigh wraps around the top of it, fingertips licking the inside of my inner thigh, and I know he can feel the heat emanating from just north of there.

He pulses his hand on my lower back, pressing me down, letting me up again, and pressing me down, over and over, in a rhythm that’s going to send me over the edge in no time flat. Probably break some sort of speed record for ATVs even.

“You’re still a fucking brat, I see.”

His teasing tone is so unexpected and so fucking welcome. My body knows what to do when he talks like that to it. Another rush of wetness soaks the inside of my panties, and when he presses me down on the next rhythmic pulse, I feel my legs start to shake. But I manage to keep my lips pressed together. At least the ones on my face.

“Still trying to pretend like you don’t need this? Need what I can give you? That’s a shame, Rory. It would be my honor to scratch that itch anytime you need it. All you have to do is ask.”

His hand tightens on my leg, and I know he’s as tempted to put a couple fingers as deep inside me as I want him to, but I think I’m not the only one who’s aware I will not be the one to cave and ask for it, either.

Do I want him to stop? No.

Do I want to be the one of us who gives in and makes that move? Also no.

But am I strong enough to not beg him for it with my words? Barely.

My body is doing enough begging for the both of us, though. And he’s always spoken its language fluently.

Wyatt puts the one hand back on the grip and starts to rev the engine in time with the rhythm he’s moving my hips to. He’s using his own hips now to guide the motion, and I feel just how much he’s enjoying this too. That dick of his, that I’ve dreamt of a thousand times or more since I last felt it against my body. In my body. What I wouldn’t give to feel him inside me again. To take my mind off of how shitty the rest of my life is, just once. Just one sweaty session of pure fucking bliss, the way I used to be privy to on the daily. That’s all I’d need.

I’m lost in the fantasy of it, imagining how good it would be if he’d take me here, back at the bar, anywhere, really, as long as he could get in good and deep, and ride me hard. We used to be pros at sneaking in quickies, staying nearly silent while we got what we needed from one another. I think we could probably ace it again.

His voice breaks my concentration and brings me back to the present.

“I know you’re dying for some part of me inside of you, but I’ll give you the next best thing.”

Those words tear a noise out of my throat, but my attention refocuses on my center, the way the release is building, just out of reach, but definitely visible on the horizon. Like the glow of a sunrise after an endless, twelve-year-long night.

He removes the hand that’s been on my lower back and uses it to fist my ponytail where it peeks out of the hat, holding my head exactly where he wants it as his frame presses into mine from above and behind. My eyes fly open at the pressure on my scalp, the sure grip he has on my hair, the feel of his hardness digging into my ass, all the rest of him, and I know I’m right on the edge now.

“Fuck,” I finally whimper.

“That’s right. I want your eyes open, right here with me when I make you come, Aurora.”

I let out a strangled moan and keep them open but refuse to look over my shoulder at him and give him that satisfaction. Wherever he’s paused our journey back to the cars, there’s an opening in the trees and I can see the Smokies there, the peaks not far in the distance, one row after another, bathed in shadows of dark blue and black in the twilit sky.

He uses that hand on the throttle to give it more gas, even though we’re in neutral and not going anywhere, and the four-wheeler revs in response, the hardest one yet. His hips flex into mine in a fast pattern, forcing me into the vibrations in time with how he’s revving it, and I hate to admit that my collection is going to have a hard time keeping up with what he’s doing to me right now. I don’t think they have quite the horsepower he’s putting to work for me.

The smell of gasoline hits my nostrils from how he’s revving the engine, a scent I’ve long associated with the man behind me. Combine that with the fragrance of fresh pine, the early autumn leaves and the inescapable, ever-present scent surrounding me today that’s purely Wyatt, and my senses are overloaded. It’s a weird fucking thing to be turned on by, the smell of gasoline, wilderness, and my first love, but I’m self-aware enough to admit that’s what’s doing it for me.

With every breath, I’m surrounded by him, breathing him in, straight into my bloodstream and it’s inescapable. The air in my nostrils, the peaks along the skyline, even though I’m not looking at him, everything around me screams Wyatt. My system is inundated with everything him . The sights, the sounds, the smells are everything Grady.

This entire scene is just so him , the way he’s gripping me by the ponytail, driving his hips into mine from behind to control my motions, to give me exactly what I need but can’t bring myself to ask for—not a single bit of his flesh touching mine, but still making sure I get off just the same—the mountain view in the distance, his masculine scent and gasoline overtaking my senses, that there’s no stopping myself from toppling over the edge.

And at this point, I don’t think I could even think of a reason not to. Giving in to this man sounds like the best idea I’ve had since I’ve been back.

I free fall, adrenaline pumping, no parachute on as I let myself pass go without collecting two hundred dollars, and the start of an orgasm ripples through me.

“This is fucking familiar,” he purrs into my ear. “Think about you coming every goddamn night, Rory, but it’s so much better to see it again.” And I’m a goner.

My sensitivity skyrockets to new levels, my nipples begging for some sort of touch, a little tug, a pinch, a rough nip as my release barrels toward me, full speed ahead. My inner muscles tighten, my ass and thighs clench, and my entire body stiffens as the pleasure builds beyond anything I’ve had back home, finally cresting, peaking at an impossibly high level. It flares throughout my system in a high that I can now confirm nothing in my impressive toy collection will compare to again, and then dissipates slowly, the waves receding gradually, taking forever to see themselves out.

My breaths come in shaky pants as I come down, and his hand eases off of my ponytail, his body backing away from mine. Sadly, his erection leaves me as he does, and I’m left shivering from the aftershocks, still needy as I’ve ever been to be filled by him, but speechless when it comes to what to do about it.

Well, shit.

This was not how today was supposed to go.