"Costco box," she says against my mouth.
She reaches. Finds it. Tears the cardboard with impressive decisiveness and pulls one out. I watch her roll it on—steady hands, slightly trembling fingers, the precise coordination of a woman who is determined and very, very ready.
"Look at you," I manage.
"Don't talk." She positions herself. Her thighs bracket my hips. I can feel how much she wants this, the wet heat of her as she lines up.
The sensation of it alone makes my jaw clench.
"Jane—"
"I said don't talk."
She sinks down. Slowly. Taking me inch by inch with her eyes locked on mine the entire way.
Tight. Hot. The grip of her body around me pulling a groan from somewhere below my lungs.
"Oh—" She breathes. Adjusts. Shifts her hips. "You feel—"
She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to. I can read it on her face—the stretch, the overwhelm of taking all of me again after twenty-one days without. Her eyes flutter. Her lips part. The flush moving up her chest already.
"Take your time."
"I am not taking my time." She rolls her hips. Both of us make sounds that would alarm hotel staff. "I missed you too much."
Then she rides me.
This woman moves with confidence and hunger and the rhythm of someone who learned exactly what she likes and is going after it.
My hands grip her hips. Thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above her hipbones, guiding her rhythm, pulling her down harder on every downstroke.
The slap of her body against mine. The sounds she makes—low, involuntary, my name threaded through all of it.
"There—yes—" Her head falls back. The line of her throat catches the mountain light through the glass.
I sit up. Her legs wrap tighter. My mouth finds her neck. Her collarbone. The spot below her ear where she shivers every time.
"I missed us," I say against her skin. The words come out rough. Stripped of any performance. "Every day. Every hour.”
"Show me."
I flip her.
She gasps—sharp, startled.
"West—"
"I need to feel you." I push into her again, deeper than the angle above allowed, and the sound she makes drives into the base of my spine. "Let me feel you."
Her legs wrap around my waist. Her nails bite into my back—the specific sting of Jane Cooper holding on—and I drive deeper.
She meets me. Thrust for thrust. Her hips lifting to take more of me, her body demanding exactly what I'm giving her.
"Right there—don't change—"
I don't change. I give her exactly what she asked for. Deep. Hard. Steady. My hand slides between us. Finds her clit. Circles.
"West—I'm—"
