I slide two fingers inside her without stopping what my mouth is doing, feeling her arch sharply off the counter. She’s warm, tight, absolutely perfect, and the sound she makes at the intrusion goes straight through me.
I curl my fingers.
“God …” The word dissolves into something wordless.
I work her with both hands and my mouth, building pressure in steady increments, pulling reactions from her body with the patience of someone who has nowhere else to be and nothing else worth doing. Her breathing turns ragged. Her hips are rolling against my face with an abandon she isn’t managing anymore.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes out.
I have no intention of stopping.
I add a third finger, slow and careful, feeling her stretch around them, feeling the change in her sounds when I do. Her back arches fully off the counter. My free hand presses flat against her stomach, holding her in place, and she trembles under the pressure of it.
“Reece, I’m…”
“I know.” I lift my head just enough to speak against her skin. “Let go.”
She breaks on a sharp cry, clenching around my fingers, hips bucking hard against my hand. I keep working her through it, drawing out every wave, watching her come apart with the focused satisfaction of a man who has wanted this specific sight for a long time and is not rushing past a single second of it.
She’s still trembling when I rise back over her.
Her eyes find mine—dark, dazed, blown wide.
“I need you,” I admit, and my voice comes out tight with the effort of holding back while every part of me is done holding anything.
Her legs wrap around my waist in answer. “Then stop holding back.”
The last thread snaps.
I push forward in one deep, claiming stroke and bury myself inside her completely. The connection hits me like a physical blow, heat, pressure, and a rightness so overwhelming I stop moving for a full second, forehead dropping to hers, breathing through it.
She gasps. Her legs lock tighter. “Move,” she says against my mouth.
I move.
Hard. Purposeful. Nothing held in reserve.
Every thrust drives forward with the weight of everything I’ve been carrying for months—the restraint, the distance, the careful management of how much I let myself want her. Nomanagement now. No performance. Every movement is raw, honest, and says plainly what I haven’t managed to say in words yet.
No more hiding.
No more waiting.
Her teeth find my shoulder, sharp enough to make me hiss, sharp enough to leave a mark, and the small violence of it feeds something urgent under my skin. I grip her hips tighter and drive into her with steady force, feeling her rise to meet me, feeling the counter flex under the pressure of us.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice rough against her ear.
“Yes.” That single word is breathless.
“Every time I walk away from this building and think I’m fine.” I thrust forward, deep and deliberate. “I’m not fine.”
She makes a sound that isn’t words.
“Haven’t been fine since the first time you told me no.”
Her nails rake down my back.
I slide my hand between us, fingers finding the spot I mapped thoroughly sixty seconds ago, and feel her whole body jerk in response. I work her with my thumb in slow, precise circles and watch her face come undone, mouth dropping open, eyes losing focus, breaths arriving in short, choppy bursts.
