He growls—growls—and grabs me by the wrist, yanking me into his body. The door slams behind me, and I’m pressed against it before I can blink. I didn’t even know the door was still open. The heat of his stare and my own desire kept me warm even with the freezing temperatures blowing through the open door.
His hands are on either side of my head, breath hot against my cheek.
“Are you sore?”
“A little.” I smile. “But it’s a good kind of sore.”
“You want this?” he asks, voice like gravel.
I nod.
“Not enough.” He nips on my ear. “Say it.”
“I want this,” I whisper, swallowing. “I want you.”
Something inside him snaps. His mouth crashes onto mine—rough, hungry, desperate.
He kisses like a starving man. Like this is the only thing in the world that makes sense. His hands grip my waist, hard, grounding me, holding me still like he’s afraid I’ll change my mind if he lets go.
He’s not gentle. I don’t think he knows how to be at the moment. And I don’t think I want gentle.
He kisses with his whole body, like he’s trying to climb inside my skin. Like he’s spent every second since yesterday thinking about repeating what we’ve done.
My coat slides off my shoulders, puddling at my feet.
He pauses the kisses, steps back, and stares.
And stares.
And stares.
To the point I’m beginning to lose my newfound confidence, and I wrap my arms around my torso.
“Don’t,” he hisses angrily. “Never hide from me.”
“I’m—”
He leans closer, pinching my chin between his thumb and his finger. “Never, Nora. You are so fuckin’ beautiful, it hurts. And I love when it hurts.”
My eyes dart between his. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”
With a sigh, he loses the last piece of control he was clinging to.
His hands roam. Wide palms, callused fingers. Up my sides. Across my back. One hand fists into my hair and tilts my head back. His mouth finds my throat, then lower. Every inch he touches feels like it’s been lit from the inside.
“Tell me to stop if it gets too rough,” he rasps.
“I’ll never tell you to stop, Jericho,” I say into his ear, making him shudder.
He presses his forehead to mine, eyes closed, jaw clenchedso tight it trembles. “I don’t know why you’ve been sent to me, but I’m sure fuckin’ grateful.”
“Right back at you. Now.” I hook my finger at the towel around his hips and pull on it. “Let’s be rough.”
He curses under his breath and lifts me like I weigh nothing. My back hits the wall again, his body pinning mine, his towel somewhere between us but barely hanging on.
Everything is heat and pressure and motion. Not chaotic—urgent. Because for Jericho—with Jericho—this isn’t just about sex. It’s about belonging.
It’s about someone finally reaching out and grabbing him without flinching. And holding him tight.
