I meet her eyes. See my own need reflected there. "Harlow."
"Tell me to stop."
"I can't."
She leans down and kisses me. No hesitation this time. No pulling back. Her mouth is soft and demanding. I stand, hands sliding into her hair, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound against my lips and it breaks something loose inside me.
The kiss deepens. Her hands fist in my shirt, tugging, pulling me toward the wood stove where heat radiates. We stumble together, not breaking apart, unwilling to lose this connection.
"Rhys." My name is a question and a plea.
"Yeah." I don't know what I'm agreeing to, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except her mouth and her hands and the way she responds when I kiss down her neck.
We sink to the floor in front of the stove. The rug beneath us is worn and soft. Firelight paints everything in gold and shadow. She pulls at my shirt and I help her, yanking it over my head. Her hands on my bare chest make me groan. Three years since anyone touched me like this. Three years of being dead inside.
"Are you sure?" I manage to ask.
"Stop thinking." She kisses me hard. "Just feel."
So I do.
I feel the silk of her skin when her shirt comes off. The curve of her waist under my hands. The gasp she makes when I kiss the hollow of her throat. She arches into me and I forget every reason this might be too fast, too much, too complicated.
Right now she's warm and willing and responding to every touch like she's been starving for it.
Clothes disappear. Practical layers shed until there's nothing between us but heat and need. She's beautiful in the firelight. Lean muscle and soft curves. Scars on her shoulder, her ribs, evidence of a life lived dangerously. I trace them with my fingers, my mouth, learning her body the way she learned my face with those scissors.
"Gorgeous," I murmur against her skin.
Her laugh is breathless. "You're just saying that because I'm naked."
"I'm saying it because it's true." I kiss the scar on her shoulder. "Every part of you."
She pulls me back up, kisses me hard. Her hands explore my chest, my shoulders, the muscles in my arms. When her fingers trail down my stomach I suck in a breath. Lower still and I catch her wrist.
"Wait." The word costs me. "We need to talk about protection."
"I'm clean. Tested six months ago. Haven't been with anyone since." Her eyes hold mine. "You?"
"Three years. Nothing since Emma." I swallow. "I'm clean. And I can't get you pregnant. Had a vasectomy after Emma and I decided we didn't want kids."
Relief flashes across her face. "Then we're good."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She guides my hand to her breast, arches into the touch. "Stop talking, Rhys. I need you."
I settle between her thighs and she's already wet, ready. When I push inside her we both go still. The sensation is overwhelming. Heat and pressure and the tight clasp of her body accepting mine. Her head falls back. A sound escapes her throat that's half gasp, half moan.
"Look at me," I say.
Her eyes open. Dark with desire. "Move."
I do. Slow at first, letting her adjust, letting us both adjust to this. But she wraps her legs around my waist and rolls her hips, and slow becomes impossible. I thrust deeper and she meets me, matches me, takes everything I give and demands more.
The firelight flickers across her skin. Sweat beads between her breasts. I lean down and taste it, taste her. Salt and heat. Her nails rake down my back hard enough to leave marks. The bite of pain sharpens everything.
"Harder," she breathes. "Don't hold back."
