He fills me, full and deep and aching.
My back arches off the wall and my fingers dig into his shoulders and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel him inside me—the stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming fullness of being connected to another person after years of being alone.
His forehead drops to my shoulder and his body shudders and he stays still for one perfect, devastating second.
Holding. Feeling. Here.
Then he moves.
Not gentle. Not careful.
He drives into me with a force that pushes the air from my lungs and presses me harder into the wall and sets a rhythm that is grief and hunger and fury all at once.
This is not lovemaking. This is collision.
Two starving people crashing into each other with everything they’ve been hoarding for years—the pain, the loneliness, the anger at the universe for taking the person who was supposed to make this unnecessary.
I match him.
Every thrust, I rise to meet.
My hips rolling against his, my nails scoring lines down his back, my mouth on his neck tasting the salt of his skin.
I am not quiet and I am not careful and I am not sorry.
I bite his shoulder and he groans and drives deeper and the tack room fills with the sounds of us—skin against skin,breathing gone ragged, my voice saying things I don’t plan and can’t control.
“Lee.” His name in my mouth between breaths. “Lee. God. Don’t—don’t stop?—”
He doesn’t stop.
His hand tightens on my thigh.
His hips snap forward with an intensity that makes my vision white at the edges.
He’s not holding back.
Five years of suppressed wanting pouring out in every thrust, every grip, every bruising press of his body into mine.
I can feel his ring against my thigh where his hand grips—cool gold on hot skin, Rose between us even now, even here, and I don’t flinch from it because Rose is part of this whether we want her to be or not.
His mouth finds mine.
The kiss is messy—open, desperate, tasting like sweat and need.
He swallows the sound I make when he shifts the angle and hits something deep that sends lightning up my spine.
My legs tighten around him.
My hands go to his hair—damp at the temples, dark with sweat—and I hold on because there is nothing else to hold.
Just him. Just this. Just the furious, consuming reality of two bodies saying everything their mouths spent years refusing to say.
The pressure builds. Low and relentless and devastating.
He can feel me getting close—I know because his rhythm shifts, becomes harder, more deliberate, his hips grinding against me at the top of every stroke in a way that makes me shake apart from the center out.
His hand slides between us and his fingers find the place where we’re joined and press, and I shatter.
