He makes a low sound in his throat and tilts his head, deepening the angle. His tongue sweeps my lower lip, lazy and thorough. It’s not the desperate collision of the warehouse. It’s an exploration. He kisses the corner of my mouth, my chin, the sensitive cord of my neck.
The iron tension strung through his back loosens under my hands, muscles unclenching as if my touch flips a hidden release valve. His body settles against me, chest to chest, and his heartbeat thuds in steady, grounding pulses I feel through my ribs.
He breaks the contact but doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against mine. We breathe the same air.
“I miss this,” he murmurs.
“We just met a few days ago, but it feels longer.”
“Truth.” His thumb strokes my cheekbone.
He kisses me again. This time, there’s heat. A spark catching in dry tinder. His hand slides from my neck into my hair, gripping the back of my skull, anchoring me. The pressure increases. The demand rises.
I open for him.
He groans, the vibration pressing into my chest. He shifts, instinct taking over, trying to twist his body to pull me into his lap, trying to leverage his weight over mine to claim the space.
He flinches.
A sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. His body goes rigid.
He breaks the kiss, his head dropping back against the cushions. He swears, low and vicious.
“Jackson?”
“Fuck.” He breathes hard, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the spike of pain to recede. “I can’t … The stitches pull when I twist.”
“It’s okay. We don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” He opens his eyes. They are dark, burning with a hunger that has nothing to do with safety. “I want to wreck you, Talia. I’ve been wanting to since I watched you take apart that lock in the garage. I want to be over you. I want to drive into you until neither of us remembers our own names.” He hits the arm of the sofa with a frustrated fist. “But I can’t even lift you.”
The vulnerability in his voice stops me cold. This is a man who defines himself by his capability. By his physical dominance. And right now, his body is a cage.
I look at him. I see the hunger. I see the frustration. And I see the three years of denial he told me about—the walls he built to keep everyone out.
He wants this. He needs this. And I need him.
My mind shifts gears. Problem. Variable. Solution.
If he can’t be the active force, I have to be.
“You don’t have to lift me,” I say softly.
I stand.
His eyes track me, widening slightly as I grab the hem of my sweater.
“Talia?”
I pull it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goose bumps. I drop the sweater to the floor.
I don’t look away. I unbutton the jeans. Push them down. Step out of them.
I stand before him in nothing but lace scraps. I’m not a model. I have bruises from the harness. I have a scar on my collarbone. And, I’m trembling.
But the way he looks at me …
It’s like he’s seeing a miracle. His gaze travels up my legs, over my hips, lingering on my breasts, finally meeting my eyes. There is no critique. There is only worship.
