“Infinitely.” He trails kisses down my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“Nothing hurts. Don’t stop.”
He eases me back against the pillows, careful of my injuries even as his mouth does sinful things to my collarbone. His hand slides under my shirt—his shirt, actually, since I’ve yet to head home—and I arch into his touch.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he murmurs against my skin. “Do you know what that does to me?”
“Tell me.”
“Makes me want to see what’s underneath.” His fingers trace up my side, leaving trails of heat in their wake. “Makes me want to mark you. Claim you. Make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
I should probably object to the possessiveness. Instead, I find myself saying, “Then do it.”
He lifts his head, those gray eyes burning into mine. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Maybe not.” I pull him back down, kissing him with everything I have. “But I want to find out.”
He takes his time with my shirt—each button freed with deliberate slowness, his mouth following to press kisses to every inch of newly revealed skin. When he reaches my cast, he pauses, easing the sleeve over it with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. By the time he pushes the fabric aside, I’m trembling.
“Beautiful.” He traces the edge of my bra with one finger. “So fucking beautiful.”
“It’s just a plain cotton bra?—”
“I don’t care about the bra.” He meets my eyes. “I care about what’s underneath it. About you.”
He reaches behind me, unclasping it with practiced ease, and I have a moment of self-consciousness—I’m forty, my body bears the marks of time and gravity—but the way he looks at me erases every doubt.
“Perfect,” he breathes. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Boone—”
The use of his real name makes him groan. “Say it again.”
“Boone.” I arch into his touch as his hands cup my breasts. “Please.”
“Please what?” He brushes his thumbs across my nipples, and I whimper. “Tell me what you want.”
I tug at his shirt, desperate suddenly. “Off. Take this off.”
He pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head, and then he’s back, and oh God, the feel of his skin against mine. Warm and solid and real.
I run my free hand over his chest, his shoulders, the hard planes of his stomach. Memorizing him. Grounding myself in the fact that this is actually happening—that he’s here, that he wants me, that I’m allowed to touch him like this.
“Josie.” His voice is strained, his muscles twitching under my fingertips.
“I needed to make sure this was real,” I whisper. “That you’re real.”
A soft, fierce look flickers across his face. He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my palm.
“I’m real,” he says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
My throat tightens. I pull him back down to me.
“I want your mouth on me.”
He obliges immediately, drawing one nipple into his mouth while his hand works the other. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I cry out, my good hand tangling in his hair.
“So responsive.” He switches sides, lavishing the same attention on my other breast. “I could do this for hours. Just watch you come apart.”
