With my legs straddled around his lap, my dress bunched up around my hips, and his warm hands on my ass, it’s like everything and nothing I remember.
Familiar but new.
Safe but so fucking dangerous.
Patton makes a low, hungry sound against my neck as I roll my hips against his, feeling his erection at my core, separated only by the thin fabric of my panties and his jeans. Sometime between the barn and now, he’d discarded his blazer and I’d managed to unbutton his shirt, revealing the chest I’ve traced with my tongue more times than I can count.
Rocking my hips back, I unzip his pants and slide my hand over his straining hard-on, feeling the warmth of him through his boxers. The way he pulses against my palm makes me feel faint.
I swear just that feeling alone, with his length throbbing against my touch, his breath hot against my skin, and his fingers digging into my ass, has another rush of desire pooling between my thighs. If it wasn’t for that tiny scrap of fabric there, his jeans would already be covered by the evidence of my want for him.
But he doesn’t need that evidence to know how much my body craves him.
“Neesh,” he rasps, breathing hard as his forehead drops to mine. “I’m going to hate myself for asking, but . . . are you sure about this?”
I still, even though my body feels like it’s on fire. “Are you not sure? Do you not want it?”
His hands brush up my back, curling around my neck. His eyes bore into mine, intense and raw, stripped of the humor that’s usually dancing on the surface.
“It’s all I’ve wanted, every single day, for the last seven years. And while I’d imagined us in my bed instead of the back of my car, I know I won’t regret a single fucking moment tomorrow.” His thumbs trace along my jawline. “I just want to be sure you won’t, either.”
The fog of lust parts slightly as reality sinks back in—me and him, alone and about to cross a line we won’t come back from.
Our marriage. The trials and tribulations.
Our divorce. The aftermath.
All the carefully constructed walls I’d built over the years to safeguard my battered heart and protect myself from this man will likely crumble with this one decision.
One moment of weakness.
But the truth is, maybe this isn’t amomentof weakness when I’m wholly weak where he’s concerned. I’m a mess with him, but am I any better without him?
Looking into his eyes, sifting through the desire to find the truth and vulnerability there, I realize that I crossed that line the moment I kissed him in the barn. That I might have crossed the line well before that. Or hell, maybe I made up the line only to make myself feel better. Because maybe the line doesn’t exist when it comes to him.
Because my ex-husband is my Achilles heel. The crack in my armor.
He’s not just my war, but he’s my white flag of surrender, too.
And if there’s one thing I am sure of right now, it’s that I can’t fight this anymore. I can’t guard my heart, my soul, or whatever the hell else the man wants, because he’s determined to snatch them from me, no matter how much I resist. Hell, they might never have been mine to begin with.
“I can’t be sure.” My voice is a whisper as my hands fist the hair at the nape of his neck. “Not when it comes to you. And maybe we can talk about it tomorrow, but right now, I’m sure of one thing . . .” I trail off, kissing and sucking the column of his neck, rolling and grinding my hips over his need.
“And what’s that?” he croaks.
“That I want you inside me. That I want you to fuck me like I’m still yours.”
A low, primal sound rumbles in his chest. It’s all the warning I get before my world spins, and in one quick movement, he’s flipped us so I’m beneath him, lying across the leather seat.
His body cages me in, hovering over me, as his lips crash down on mine with renewed hunger. Gone is the man who was asking for permission, and in his place is the man I’m familiar with, the man who’s always known what he wants and how he plans to take it.
“You really think you ever stopped being mine?” he growls against my lips, hand sliding up my thigh to push up my dress and claim what was once his—still is. “You think some ink on paper could end us?”
I pant against him without a response, hearing him chuckle darkly. “No, baby. It would never be that easy.”
His fingers find my center, shoving aside the fabric to glide up my heated slit. I gasp at the contact, my back bowing off the seat with just that first touch.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, low and gritty. “Missed this body, this skin.” His finger circles my entrance, making my empty core clench with need. “This pretty pussy.”
