"We shouldn't," he mutters against my throat, even as his hands slide under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my ribs.
"Says who?"
"Trying to convince myself."
"Is it working?"
"Not even a little."
His hands find my breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples through my bra, and I arch into the touch with a moan that's embarrassingly needy. He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a curse, and pulls my shirt over my head.
For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes dark and heated, and I feel more exposed than I have in years. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like he's seeing parts of me I forgot existed.
"You're beautiful," he says roughly.
"You don't have to say that, I know I’m average."
"I'm not saying it to be nice, Ruby. You're fucking beautiful, and I can't stop thinking about you, and this is going to complicate everything, but I don't care anymore."
He kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands map my body like he's memorizing it, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me clutch at his shoulders. When his fingers slide into my jeans, finding me wet and ready, I nearly come undone right there.
"Mayson," I breathe.
"I've got you."
His fingers push inside me, and I gasp at the stretch—it's been so long, and my body responds with almost painful intensity. I'm tight, unused to this, and he feels it, pausing.
"You okay?" His voice is rough, strained.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He moves slowly at first, letting me adjust, and I'm melting against him, my body remembering what it's like to be wanted, to be touched, to feel pleasure instead of just survival. His fingers work deeper, stroking, finding that spot that makes me whimper into his mouth.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans. "So perfect."
I'm desperate, clinging to him, my hand fumbling with his belt, finding him through the denim—thick and hard and straining. I stroke him clumsily, wanting to give him what he's giving me, but I can barely focus. Every nerve ending is on fire, and I'm coming apart at the seams.
"Mayson, I can't. I'm gonna!"
"Let go," he murmurs against my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. His thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure, and I'm gone.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train—years of pent-up need crashing through me all at once. I cry out his name, and his mouth captures the sound, swallowing my moans as I come undone in his arms. My body clenches around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through me until I'm shaking, barely able to stand.
When I finally come back to myself, I'm trembling, boneless, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes from the intensity of it. His fingers are still inside me, gentler now, stroking me through the aftershocks. Our foreheads rest together, both of us breathing hard, and I can feel his heart hammering against my chest—or maybe that's mine.
"I haven't... not since before the outbreak," I whisper, needing him to understand why I came apart so completely. "I forgot it could feel like that."
His eyes darken even more, something possessive and tender flickering across his face. "Ruby..."
He looks wrecked—hair sticking every which way from my fingers, jaw tight with restraint, eyes blazing. My hand is still on him, feeling him thick and hard through his jeans, the denim damp where he's leaked through. He's holding himself back, and it's costing him.
"Do you want?" I start, my hand still on him.
"I want." His voice is strained, jaw clenched tight. "God, Ruby, I want."
"Then let me."
Before he can protest, I'm sinking to my knees on the worn wooden floor, working at his belt buckle. His hand catches my shoulder, not stopping me but steadying himself.
