Thin Love(100)

Keira squeezed against him again and Kona stilled, stared down at her with a smile that told her he wanted to control this, lead her. “Don’t squeeze,” he said, pulling her hips up, hitting inside her deeper. “If you open up, baby, go wide for me, relax, I can make you come hard, I can make it last for you.” A slow thrust, deeper, harder and Keira arched against him, relaxed her inner muscles even as she throbbed against him. “Perfect, so perfect.”

This was deeper, freer somehow, letting Kona move them, letting him control the moment and Keira held onto Kona like he would anchor her, keep her from floating above herself.

“Come for me, baby. Give it to me completely and I’ll make it so, so good for you. I’ll take care of you when you shatter against me.” And Keira listened, guessed that this is what Kona needed—that slip of control she gave to him. She let go, pushed out, relinquishing herself, giving her body to Kona, rather than closing off, pulling in, and the effect was substantial. He moved in closer, worked faster and Keira let herself open, relax until that heavenly sensation came upon her, urged on by Kona’s strong hands on her hips, his wide dick touching all the way inside her and when the orgasm came, it mirrored her heart—free, unyielding, explosive.

“God… ,” Kona said, voice rising higher and higher with each grunt he made, hips slamming into her hard, fast, faster, and Keira knew he was hitting his crest. Shoulders shaking, hips pumping faster and faster, Kona released a groan, filling her, throbbing inside her as he came.

Then he pulled his hand from hers and held the back of her neck, stared down at her with his thumb on her cheek. “This is always, Wildcat. You… you’re my always.”





The rain hadn’t stopped. Kona heard the slow thump against the makeshift patch he’d fashioned out of duct tape for the broken pane of glass on the French door. He felt like a jackass for kicking it in, but at the time, his thoughts had been on touching Keira, on holding her to make all her doubt vanish. He’d watched her with rain pouring over him, flooding his skin and he hadn’t felt a thing but the quick whip of anxious energy that made him kick in that glass.

Keira had looked so scared, so wild, so lost. She’d told him more than she ever had, about the loss of her father, the events leading up to that, and it broke Kona’s heart. There was something about her that made him want to protect her. He’d felt it that first night outside her dorm when he ran up to that asshole attacking her. The sensation of taking all that shit, all that pain from her had only increased the harder he fell for her, and that night with her raging at him, with her screaming secrets about what she’d done for her father, crippled him, had him wanting to cover her with his body just to hide her from the world. More pain would come, no one gets through it without feeling life’s bite, but Kona would kill himself to make sure he’d didn’t give Keira any of that pain himself.

A clap of thunder rattled the French door and Kona blinked, squinting, then frowned when he noticed Keira wasn’t in the bed with him. He came to his side, looked around her room, to the girly decorations littered around the room, the random collection of stuffed animal on the floor and he left the bed, pulling his damp jeans on.

“Keira?” he called into the en suite bath, but when he stepped inside, he only found a wet tub and two towels drying on the side of it. The whole room smelled like her, jasmine, sweet and just the scent made Kona hungry for her.

The house was ridiculous and he felt awkward and uncomfortable in the hallway, taking the stairs down, looking at the empty walls and the random décor that reminded Kona of a house that had never been lived in.

He was thinking of the difference between where he grew up and this place, shaking his head at the soulless opulence, at how pristine and orderly everything was, when the sound of a piano in the next room pulled his thoughts toward Keira.

He had been hoping he’d hear her sing. Up until now, Kona had only caught snatches of her voice, low hums and muffled songs through her dorm room wall, but he had always wanted her to sing for him. He wanted her eyes on him when she played, for her to voice the words only for him - but he wouldn’t push, knew he couldn’t push.

“Music,” she’d once told him during one of their long library sessions, “is personal. The stuff I write is for me because it’s part of who I am. I don’t show just anybody who I am, Kona.”

The song she played was slow, soft tickles of the keys that had Kona closing his eyes, had his throat buzzing. As he walked barefoot over the hardwood, he made sure his steps were light, that he didn’t disturb her as she played.