My hands find her waist. Her coat is still on and I need it off, need the barrier gone. I push it from her shoulderswithout breaking the kiss and she lets it fall, helps it fall, shrugs out of it while her mouth stays on mine.
Her fingers work the buttons of my shirt. Not gracefully. Two of them stick. She makes a frustrated sound against my lips that goes directly to my cock.
"Having trouble?" My voice is rough.
"Your buttons are hostile."
I pull the shirt over my head. Faster.
She laughs into my mouth and the vibration of it travels through my entire body like a current.
Her hands flatten against my bare chest. The contact after three weeks of deprivation sends a jolt through me so acute my muscles lock.
Twenty-one days since I felt her warmth against my skin. Twenty-one days of calls and texts and the slow, maddening accumulation of wanting her with nowhere to put it.
"Jane—"
She pushes me backward. Not gently. My calves hit the edge of the bed and I sit. She stands between my knees, looking down at me. Her hair is falling across her face. Her breathing is faster now—I can see her pulse in the hollow of her throat, rapid, visible.
She pulls her shirt over her head.
I stop breathing.
She reaches behind herself. Unhooks her bra. Let’s it drop.
I reach up. Both hands.
She inhales sharply. Her hands fly to my wrists—not to stop me. To hold me there.
"I've been thinking about these." My thumbs move. Slow circles. Feeling her respond.
"Get on the bed," she says.
I obey.
Because the look on her face—thatlook, certain and wanting and completely unguarded—tells me this is her taking something for herself.
And it’s the sexiest thing I've ever seen.
She climbs on top of me. Straddles my hips. Her weight settles against me and the pressure of her body on mine after three weeks of aching for it makes my hands grip the sheets.
"You've been patient," she says. Her palms slide up my stomach. Over my ribs. Mapping me. Remembering me.
"I've been losing my mind."
"Good." She leans down. Her mouth brushes my ear. "Me too."
I grip her hips. Pull her tighter against me. The friction makes us both gasp—her grinding down involuntarily, me pushing up without deciding to.
"Off," I manage. My hands find the waistband of her jeans.
"Demanding."
"Jane. Off. Now."
She rolls beside me long enough to strip the rest of her clothes. I do the same. Seconds. Clumsy. A knee collides with a hip. Neither of us cares.
Then she's back on top of me—bare skin, warm, real, the full weight of her pressing me into the mattress.
