I do. God help me, I do.
I pull back just enough to look at her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, her hair spread across my pillow like she belongs there. Because she does. She belongs here, in my bed, in my life, in every part of me I’d locked away for fifteen years.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she breathes.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to devour me.”
“That’s exactly what I’m about to do.”
Her eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Then stop talking about it and do it.”
I take her mouth again, rougher this time, one hand fisting in her hair while the other slides under her shirt. Her skin is so soft—warm silk under my calloused palm—and she arches into my touch like she’s been starving for it.
“Off.” I tug at her shirt. “I need this off.”
She sits up just enough for me to pull it over her head, and then my hands are on her bra—plain white cotton, practical, the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen because it’s covering her—and I’m fumbling with the clasp like a teenager.
“Having trouble?” She’s laughing at me, the brat.
“Shut up.” The clasp finally gives and I toss the bra somewhere over my shoulder. “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
“By you.” I cup her breasts in my hands, feeling their weight, watching her nipples pebble under my palms. “By these. By the fact that I finally get to touch you without worrying about breaking you.”
“I told you I wouldn’t break.”
“And I didn’t believe you.” I lower my head, pressing a kiss to the swell of her breast. “But the cast is off. The stitches are out. And I have exactly—” I glance at the clock. “— an hour and fifty-three minutes to make you come as many times as humanly possible.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s a promise.”
I draw her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, and she cries out—her hands flying to my head, fingers tangling in my hair. I lavish attention on one breast while my hand works the other, rolling her nipple between my fingers, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Boone—” Her hips are moving restlessly beneath me, seeking friction. “More. I need more.”
“Patience.”
“Fuck patience. I’ve been patient for months.”
She’s yanking at my belt before I can respond, her newly freed hands—no more cast, thank Christ—working the buckle with desperate efficiency. I let her, groaning when her fingers brush against my cock through my jeans.
“Someone’s eager,” she murmurs.
“You have no idea.”
She gets my belt open, then my button, then my zipper, and when she shoves her hand inside my boxers and wraps her fingers around me, I have to squeeze my eyes shut and think about engine parts to keep from losing it right there.
“Jesus—” I thrust into her grip involuntarily. “Your hand?—”
“You like that?” She strokes me slowly, root to tip, her thumb swirling through the moisture already leaking from the head. “Like feeling me touch you?”
“Josie—”
“I used to lie awake imagining this.” Her voice is low, throaty, doing things to me that should be illegal. “About what you’d feel like in my hand. How thick you’d be. How hard.” She squeezes, and I groan. “Reality’s even better than the fantasy.”
