her own body. An utter vulnerability that he seemed to fight against and lose to with every thrust, with every breath.
“Ian,” she breathed, and it was a kind of plea, an understanding that she was in an unfamiliar place and didn’t know where to go from there. His hand slid from her waist to cover her pubic hair, thumb sliding downward to touch her just so.
Lightning struck. She cried out in abandon and lost herself to it, a flood of sensation that tugged at her toes and filled her from the inside out, every muscle clenched or throbbing in the best possible way. She dimly heard Ian’s shout, feeling the pulse of his release in a way that had never mattered before but now suddenly did. She opened her eyes just soon enough to see it on his face—ecstasy ripping right through him, laying him as bare as it had laid her.
That’s when she understood, even as the final throb of pleasure ebbed through her body, leaving her limp in its wake.
Being with Ian wasn’t just about seeing where things went or following along in an adventure or feeling, even pulling the most possible pleasure from it all.
It was about doing those things together.
Ian gulped for air, reveling in the sensation of Ana’s body draped over his. Not to mention the pulses of lingering pleasure and the distinct memory of her expression as orgasm had washed over her. His breathing steadied; his mind steadied.
Quiet. Replete.
A completely unfamiliar inner silence.
He floundered in it, uncertain—looking for some mental handhold, even if it brought him back to the plague of internal noise he couldn’t remember being without.
She stirred, pushing off his chest to look at him with her face still flushed and now blushing on top of it, her hair a delightful disarray. “Oh, my God,” she said, putting a hand over her mouth. “I... I screamed.”
He smiled, finding his anchor in her expression. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
“I never—” She stopped herself. “I...never...”
It caught his attention. There was more here than the aftermath of great sex. Stupendously great sex. Even he knew that much, still floating in the physical satisfaction and silence. “What?”
“No, I—” She shook her head, looking around—bringing herself back to the details of what had happened. He knew what she’d see—scattered clothes, scattered couch cushions and a man she hadn’t known all that long still lying beneath her.
He stopped her just before she would have removed herself from it all, his hands over her thighs—enough to encompass, not enough to force compliance—and asked it again. “What?”
She covered her face, only briefly, and then flipped her hair back. “I’ve never come with anyone before.”
He frowned. “At the same time? Because technically, you beat me to that finish line.”
She laughed, but it sounded sad. “No, I mean...when I’ve been with someone. Ever.” She took a breath as he tried to absorb this. “I’m ‘too hard to please.’”
He half sat, his hold on her legs keeping them just as together as they’d been. “Who said that? Because—” Then he stopped, suddenly aware of the depth of his reaction, his protective response. “Never mind. That’s not what I want to say. But just so you know, whoever said that is obviously fucking nuts. Pardon me.”
She laughed again, this time sounding as if, just possibly, she’d been freed from something. But she quickly turned uncertain. “Ian,” she said. “Seriously. Is this how it should always be?”
“Babe,” he told her, still awash in the aftermath of silence within himself, “this is how we always wish it would be. But it should always be good. A man makes certain of that.”
Blessed, blessed silence...
She said, “I’ll have to think about that.”
“Don’t,” he said, and was a little hard pressed to explain when she raised a brow at him. “Think, I mean. Just stay here with me a little while longer. Not thinking.”
“Look who’s talking. I got the impression that you never actually do stop thinking. I bet you run calculations in your sleep.” But she smiled, relaxing the fraction that told him she’d stay. She made another attempt to tame her hair back and gave up on it, instead turning her attention to his chest—chasing whorls of hair with her fingertips and the edges of short, practical nails painted something faintly pink. His skin pebbled in response, all the way down to his balls; he twitched faintly inside her. She laughed, disbelief at the edge of it.
“Hey,” he said, though he couldn’t help but grin back at her. “It is what it is.” Then, as she scraped the outside edge of a nipple, he shifted with a less lighthearted purpose. “But be merciful, if you would. I only brought the one condom.”
She withdrew her hands entirely. “Oh. Well. In that case—” and then she laughed again at his dramatic groan. “Not everything requires a condom, I hear. And there are some things I’ve always wanted to try—”
Of course his body fairly leaped to attention, squirming here and stiffening there, and this time she laughed right out loud—and then laughed again at his ruefully self-aware expression. “That felt to me like you might just be interested.”
“C’mere, babe,” he growled, an exaggerated version of manly prowess. “I’ll show you interested.”
And she had the audacity to stretch—right there, still sitting on top of him and surrounding him, the faint light painting the lines and curves of her body, all beauty and delicate grace. “Okay,” she said, and her tone had changed. More than confident. Eager.
He could do eager. With this woman? God, yes, he could do eager. And in that moment, and in the next, and the one to follow, he barely even noticed the silence in his mind at all.
* * *
Morning brought bright sunshine and the faintest taste of a hangover.
Or what Ian thought a hangover might be. Given the speed at which a strong-blooded Sentinel metabolized alcohol, it took a concerted effort to feel the effects—both during and after. Ian had done the usual youthful experiment and then ceased to bother.
But he was pretty sure this would be it. The underlying throb encompassing his eyes, the uncertainty in his stomach. Leftovers from whatever had struck him the day before.
And that deserved some thought. Ian wasn’t good at being sick because Sentinels generally weren’t. So what had he gotten into, or what had gotten into him?
He stared at the back of his eyelids a moment longer, taking in the unfamiliar sounds and scents of his surroundings, and especially the unfamiliar light. A different window, east-facing, than the one he’d taken here at the retreat. And Fernie’s kitchen smelled of sausage and egg in the morning, not just tea and toast.
