Her lips find my jaw, my throat, that pulse point that’s never made me flinch for anyone. I shudder. She notices.
“Makari…”
She says it like a plea, a curse, a memory. I answer with my mouth at her neck, with my hands anchoring her hips as her body arches into mine. Then, I can’t hold back anymore.
Tearing myself away, I set her feet firmly on the ground. With both hands I rip the front of her pants—the button flying off into the room, the zipper making a horrible tearing noise—and yank them down to her ankles. Roxanne steps out, her hands on my shoulders, but before I stand again my fingers dig into her hips and I bury my face in her clothed pussy, inhaling.
She smells divine. She clings to me like she’s falling, and I’m the closest solid thing she can find. Her thighs part, and I know she’s remembering how I ate her out in the bank vault like it was my last meal. How I made her come until she trembled, before I fucked her.
I need her.
Standing again, I press my forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t. Instead, she whispers, “Don’t.”
And that’s all it takes.
I carry her to the table—rough wood, steady legs—and set her down, my mouth never leaving hers for more than a heartbeat. Her hands pull me closer, and the last pieces of restraint vanish. I pull her panties down her voluptuous legs, and I kick off my trousers, cock bobbing against her heat.
In a haze of ecstasy, I plunge into her. The past and present merge, her pussy stretching as she moans under me, nails raking through my hair.
I’m not going to last long. I’ve been starving for years, and never realized until this very moment. Until seeing her.
As I pump into her, the table scraps across the floor with each thrust, and my mind spirals with the truth:nothinghas been as good as this. Nothing ever will be. No matter how many men I kill, no matter how much money I make, I would give it all away to be buried deep inside Roxanne Adler with her moaning my name.
I hold her face in my hands when she pulls me down into another kiss, open and desperate, and for the first time in a decade, I feel something—not escape, not distraction, but want. It’s real, and it consumes me, creating a fire in my gut as I plunge my tongue between her lips and taste her.
She’s everywhere—her voice in my ear, her body tightening against mine, her breath turning into soft, helpless sounds that make my grip on sanity snap. With every thrust, that flimsy blouse that has been distracting men all day slips a little lower, revealing more of her supple breasts. I press my mouth there, bite the skin and leave red marks so they’ll all know she’smine.
I lose myself—completely, willingly—in the woman I had once and never forgot.
And when she breaks under me, when her fingers dig into my hair and she gasps my name again, I follow her over the edge with a force that leaves me shaking.
For a long moment, the only sounds are the storm outside and the ragged breathing between us. I rest my forehead against hers. My whole body feels raw, scraped open, every nerve exposed. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest like it did all those years ago—the little hare I’d caught in my trap.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Had I dreamed of finding her again? Yes; but it seemed an impossibility. And not like this, never like this. Not in a goddamn abandoned cabin in the woods during a lightning storm.
Not with the woman I’ve employed to hide all my secrets, who seems to loathe me one moment and stalk me the next.
I pull back slowly, brushing my thumb along her cheek without thinking. Her eyes close, just for a second—and something inside me tightens painfully.
Then she inhales, sharp and steadying, and the moment shatters.
She slides off the table, straightens her shirt, smooths her hair. In moments she’s decent again, though the cut of the blouse still tugs at my attention; makes my spent dick twitch in interest.
But she doesn’t meet my eyes. Not once.
The storm outside has passed, leaving the air bright and sharp. I feel exposed suddenly, not just physically, but cracked open like a stone that was meant to stay buried for centuries. She grabs her coat without looking at me.
“We should get back,” she says, voice cool, professional, infuriatingly composed.
I stand there, shirt undone, breathing hard, watching her rebuild her walls brick by brick.
“Roxy.”
She pauses at the door, but still doesn’t turn around.
